


makes no sense to fall (as the world falls down)

by GoblinRuler



Category: Labyrinth (1986), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Labyrinth Fusion, Crossover Story, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fantasy, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Geralt of Rivia has feelings, Labyrinth AU, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Riddles, Start of Relationship, Temporary Amnesia, Various Fandom References, gratuitous camomile references, lots of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinRuler/pseuds/GoblinRuler
Summary: Geralt growls, taking another step. “You took him,” he states, rather than asks, “give him back. Now.”“What’s said is said.” The figure spreads their arms in a grand gesture, as if presenting Geralt with a logical conclusion to a riveting story. “You wished the little bard gone and I whisked him away.”After the dragon hunt and everything that follows, Geralt says something he comes to regret. Alone, pressed for time and in unknown territory, he'll face his biggest challenge yet - solve the magic labyrinth in time to reach the castle beyond the Goblin City and take back his bard. If only it were so easy...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 128
Kudos: 361





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this while listening to the five songs David Bowie wrote for Labyrinth on a loop.  
> There’s (often vague) references to several fandoms that shaped me as an (alleged) human being in here, anyone who finds at least one of them gets a high five. 
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr! @proud-librarian
> 
> EDIT: I came across these AWESOME remixes of the Labyrinth songs recently! As much as I love the David Bowie versions, I find that these fit my version of the Labyrinth (and the Goblin Ruler) much better!   
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_kBkfN2pGB1wiX0MzO--hBg5qJ1PRN7yc4

At the end of the day, Geralt supposes he should be happy with the conclusion of the mission. The dragon egg has been saved, Borch won’t be bothered anymore and asides from the reavers and the idiot knight, everyone survived. 

Of course, the fact that Yennefer has left - for good this time, perhaps - puts a damper on everything. That and the words Borch left him with leave him with an acrid taste in his mouth. To top it all off, Jaskier had managed to wake up just in time to witness the shit-show between Geralt and Yennefer. The bard must be itching to write his next ballad, the tragic tale of a love that could not be. Geralt clenches his jaw at the thought.

As if to add to the witcher’s humiliation, Jaskier chooses that moment to pipe up. “Phew, what a day! I imagine you’re probably-” 

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt shouts, surprising himself a little with the venom in his voice. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shoveling it?”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier says, softly, without any fight in his voice, but Geralt is too angry to properly process this. He steps up to the bard, teeth clenched and points an accusatory finger at the younger man.

“The Child Surprise. The Djinn. All of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” He turns away then, so he can’t see the hurt and defeat taking their hold on the bard. A part of him knows that he’s being unfair, but he’s too angry to care. He’s hurting and damn him if he’s going to be the only one in pain, selfish as the sentiment may be. 

From the horizon, dark clouds start to gather. Geralt shivers when a sudden wind rises, colder than it should be at this time of year, colder than it should be even this high up. He peers at the clouds, which are approaching fast, faster than should be possible. They bring the rumble of fast-approaching thunder and flashes of lightning and Geralt takes a step back, torn between pulling his sword and running for cover.

“G-Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is scarcely more than a strangled whisper and Geralt barely whirls around in time to see him flicker out of existence. _Fuck_.

“Jaskier?” Geralt looks around in disbelief, then in dread. He knows the bard can’t just have disappeared, not by himself at least and certainly not without any trace of magic. But the more he looks, the more he realizes that there is no trace of him.

“Jaskier!” he shouts again, running towards the spot from where Jaskier disappeared, staring down at it and not having the faintest clue of what to do. There is nothing there, no sigil, no smoke, just… nothing, save for a hint of the camomile oil the bard is so fond of.

Geralt whirls around when he hears a chuckle behind him, sword drawn and ready. There, leaning nonchalantly against a large rock, is a figure he's never seen before. They’re short, with kohl-lined grey eyes and pointed ears, their long red curls swept to one side with the sides of their head shaved bald. Their golden crown shimmers and their purple robes, adorned with stars of golden thread and gems, billow in the rising winds.

The figure regards Geralt with a nonchalant smirk, still leaning casually, their hands in front of their chest with their fingertips pressed together as if intrigued. The air around the figure tingles and there’s a smell of ozone in the air that has nothing to do with the storm. That explains why he didn’t hear or see them coming, why he didn’t smell anything.

“Where is he,” Geralt hisses at them, raising his sword and taking a step forwards.

The figure tuts, as if admonishing an unruly child instead of a witcher threatening them with a sword. “Now now, dear witcher, that’s no way to greet your benefactor.” 

Geralt growls, taking another step. “You took him,” he states, rather than asks, “give him back. _Now_.”

“What’s said is said.” The figure spreads their arms in a grand gesture, as if presenting Geralt with a logical conclusion to a riveting story. “You wished the little bard gone and I whisked him away.”

“I did not-”

The figure straightens up, abandoning their air of nonchalance like shrugging off a cloak, and gives Geralt a downright murderous look. “I would advise you not to insult my generosity, witcher. You asked for your poor little friend to be taken and I happened to be listening at the right moment, taking it upon myself to relieve you of your burden. The least you could do is thank me.”

“I didn’t…” Geralt falters, his sword lowering. His own words come back to him and a pit starts to form in his stomach.

“You didn’t what? Mean it? I find that hard to believe.” The figure smirks down on Geralt, their grey eyes boring into his. It’s not often that someone can fix him in place with just a look and Geralt finds he does not care for the experience.

“I sensed a great displeasure from miles away and came to see what could have possibly caused such resonating agony. Being the generous ruler I am, I could not help but intervene, in hopes of… soothing your pain.” The figure’s smile widens. “Besides, my court has been too quiet for too long. A bard, especially one of renown, could liven up the place. Truly, we are helping each other out. Entertainment for me, peace for you.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at the figure - this _ruler_ of whatever court - and tries to make sense of their words. “Who are you?” he bites out.

“The Ruler of Goblins,” the figure states, in a tone of voice that seems to reverberate unnaturally between the rocks, “at your service.” They bow, with a lot of flashy hand gestures and a sparkle of mirth in their bright, calculating eyes. “And you are the famous Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Your story is widely known in my kingdom, dear witcher. And now your bard graces my halls and entertains my subjects, no doubt telling us of everything he witnessed in your company. Truly, a delight.”

At the mention of Jaskier, Geralt snarls. “You mistook my anger for a wish. I want him back. Now.”

“Do you now? After everything he did to you? After all the Destiny he heaped upon your already heaving shoulders? After all the ‘shit shoveling’, as you called it?” The Goblin Ruler snorts and tosses their head back, their hair and crown briefly illuminated by a flash of lightning cracking in the distance. “I honestly believe you were sick of him, with how you shouted at him. And now you want him back already? Do you think you’re going to miss your favorite punching bag?”

“Shut up and tell me where I can find him,” Geralt grits out. The urge to punch the Ruler gets stronger and stronger with every word, if only to satisfy his growing guilt. He may have spoken in anger earlier and felt justified for it, but he never meant for _this_. For some… creature to just up and take Jaskier away like that. The bard never deserved that.

“Very well.” The ruler steps forwards and points to a distant spot over Geralt’s shoulder. “He’s right there, in my castle.” Geralt turns around before he remembers that he’s still on a mountain in a virtually uninhabited part of the lands, that there was no castle there when they made their way up the mountain. 

There is no warning crackle of magic, no portal, no vertigo, no sign at all. He’s simply on the mountain one moment and somewhere completely different in the next. After he turns, he finds himself in a wide, rocky valley, the air warm and dry and his ears ringing with the sudden absence of roiling thunder and crackling lightning. Geralt blinks in confusion, the shift in light intensity momentarily throwing off his vision, but then it clears and he can see a castle in the distance, built on a small mountain of reddish stone. It’s a large, sprawling thing, all twisting towers and coiling spires reaching up in the sky. His ears pick up a soft sound and he strains to listen, recognising the sound of lute strings being plucked, carried to him on the wind's wings along with that herbal scent that always hangs around Jaskier. Geralt finds himself torn between relief at the sign of life from the bard and agitation at the distance between them.

“It seems he’s already making himself at home,” the Ruler whispers huskily into his ear and Geralt jerks away. The Ruler chuckles again, stepping around him and extending an arm towards the castle. “I trust he will fit right in. It has been quite some times since we’ve had a bard in our halls. My subjects should be delighted by his presence.” They pause, shooting Geralt a look from the corner of their eye. “Until, of course, you barge in and drag him back out.”

Geralt does not respond to that particular comment, instead focussing on the castle. “Doesn’t look very far,” he mutters, refusing to let his anxiety show.

“Maybe,” the Ruler purrs, “if you could approach it in a straight line. But you see, this is not the first time someone has tried to reclaim a soul from my halls and I’ve had to… fortify my defenses.” They gesture and the clouds above part as if by their command. The sunlight - strangely red instead of it’s usual yellow - falls across the land and now Geralt sees that between him and the castle is a vast maze of high stone walls, twisting and spiraling as far as he can see. By the gods, does he have to cross it to reach the castle?

As if they can read his mind, the Ruler turns back to him. “You have thirteen hours to solve my labyrinth and reach the castle, my dear witcher. Should you fail, well… I’m afraid he’ll be lost to you forever if you do.” 

“Solve the labyrinth?” Geralt says before he can stop himself, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “How do I even know there is a solution? For all I know, you built it to be unsolvable.” He mentally admonishes himself. He’s in no position to antagonize this Ruler, especially not since they have not shown what kind of enemy they truly are.

The Ruler, however, seems to find his reaction amusing, clapping their hands together and chortling, “But of course there is a solution, my good man. I am, above all, fair and I do not lie. You will find, however, that fair does not mean easy. And the clock is ticking. If you want to get to my castle in time, you better start walking.”

Geralt replies with a scowl. “Doesn’t look too difficult,” he mumbles, more to quell the apprehension rising in his stomach than anything else, “I’ll get there in no time and then Jaskier and I are leaving.”. Staring down at the labyrinth, he can’t see any doors or entrances into the labyrinth, but he is still pretty far away. Once he gets closer, he will be fine, he tells himself. Resolutely, he pushes past he Ruler to make his way towards the labyrinth.

“Don’t get confident, my dear Witcher,” the Ruler calls after him, making him pause and look over his shoulder, “you’ll find that my labyrinth does not adhere to the same rules as your world. I’d keep my eyes peeled if I were you.”

Geralt turns a bit more, just in time, catching one more glimpse of the Ruler before they pirouette sharply, their robes billowing and then wrapping around them. The next moment, they have turned into a large, snowy owl, its wings flapping as its lifts off gracefully. It circles Geralt once, twice, then dives down and almost brushes its wings against the witcher’s head, as if to challenge him. Then it flies off, making a sharp turn and heading straight for the castle in the distance.

Geralt stays for a second, looking at the horizon, where the dark castle looms, as he puzzles over the Ruler’s words. Clearly, they were meant as a challenge, or maybe to discourage him, but something about them feels… off. What exactly had they meant, about the labyrinth not following ‘the same rules’? Then he dismisses the thought. He is in enemy territory, he should watch every step he makes, be on his guard and not get so focussed on a vague threat that he fails to notice more pressing matters. If he’s learned anything from rulers and royals that talk big, he’s in for a lot of trouble. No sense wasting time trying to figure out minute details, especially since he’s pressed for it. 

His mind made up, the witcher sets off once more, keeping a brisk pace as he makes his way towards the labyrinth. It doesn’t take him long to reach the high stone walls, which stretch out further than he can see and he stops once more, inspecting the unending stretch of brickwork. The outer wall of the labyrinth is overgrown with moss and ivy in places, the mortar crumbling between the ancient bricks. Geralt look to the left, then to the right, but he sees nothing even remotely resembling a door. He considers scaling the walls for a brief moment, then dismisses the idea. Even if he can find hand- and footholds on the uneven surface, the stone is so old it might crumble under his weight and he can’t afford the possible injury. Trying to make an opening big enough to squeeze through could work, but it would cost him a lot of time and again, the walls might collapse before he’s done.

He scoffs, frowning in irritation. If the Goblin Ruler had spoken the truth, there should be an entrance, but what use is an entrance if he can’t find it? Besides, for all he knows, the Ruler has been lying to him from the start and the labyrinth has neither entrance nor solution. Or maybe the labyrinth is designed to simply trap whoever dares to enter it, if they even manage to, and he’ll be wandering the twisting corridors and dead ends until he dies or goes mad. And why would he even bother entering? He might as well turn back, then, cut his losses and…

The faintest whiff of camomile drifts past him and Geralt starts, realizing two things at once. One, he’s turned around and has taken several steps away from the labyrinth, back up to the valley where he started. Two, his medallion is vibrating around his neck. He shakes his head in a daze, trying to focus. Something or _someone_ is trying to prevent him from entering the labyrinth.

Geralt turns back around and marches up to the labyrinth once more, resolutely this time. His medallion vibrates more and more the closer he gets to the walls and he feels the cloudy cobweb of suggestion try to drape itself over his mind once more, but he grits his teeth and marches on. There is still no door or gate to speak of, but something tells him that not everything is as it seems. He reaches out and lays a hand on the stone wall.

The moment his fingers touch the ancient stone, it’s like a silk thread in Geralt’s mind snaps. His medallion stops vibrating and he feels more clear-headed as the hazy feeling of discouragement is lifted once more. Clearly, the wards surrounding the labyrinth are meant to dissuade instead of outright scaring people off. He allows himself a small grin at the realisation, appreciating the genius of the move. The subtle dissuasion is so faint it is more likely to go unnoticed and thus be more effective than any scare tactics. “Clever,” he mumbles, “very clever. But I’m getting in no matter what.”

No sooner has he said that or the stone under his fingers wobbles, like waves or the image in a magic mirror. Geralt watches in fascination as the stones ripple and waver, shifting and molding and then he’s no longer staring at a stone wall, but at a pair of old oak doors, with shiny brass hinges, which do not creak as the doors swing open by themselves, revealing a dark corridor with high stone walls. Roots, weeds and moss protrude from ground and walls at random intervals, almost as if trying to convince him of how old, decrepit and unthreatening the labyrinth is.

Geralt scoffs, the Ruler’s earlier words ringing through his mind. No doubt there’s more magic between these walls than in all of Aretuza, cleverly attempting to cloud his senses and judgement. He might stand a better chance than most, as he is more attuned to magic and danger, but he should still be on the alert. This labyrinth might prove a challenge he should not undertake lightly.

His mind made up, Geralt steps forwards and enters the labyrinth. The walls around him are high, just like they looked when he was still outside, and the dark bricks are damp and moist, perfectly fit for the moss and algae growing on them. Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to gage a sense of where to go, but all he smells is moist plant matter and damp stone. Behind him, the heavy doors close with a resounding boom, cutting off the sounds from outside in an ominous way, as if reinforcing the sense that he has stepped into an altogether different, unknown world. He does not look back, does not attempt to open them again. Instead, he squares his shoulders and starts to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to state that this story is more of an adaptation than a scene-by-scene copy of the movie. I play very fast and loose with the original story. Make of that what you will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, I said tuesday, but I'm vibrating with the need to share more of this, so, AHA!

The long path stretches out before him, partially overgrown with roots. He steps around them easily, cautious at first, almost expecting the roots to rear back and snap around his ankles, attempting to drag him back to… somewhere. When they stay still and inanimate though, he gets a little less careful, though he keeps his guard up. At the same time, he tries to sense anything that might help him find the right direction, a sound, a scent, the glimpse of someone or _something_ darting around a corner, anything.

Geralt keeps walking, his eyes peeled and his ears pricked, as the path keeps on stretching out in front of him, never bending or branching off. He speeds up to a jog, still focussed on picking up anything that can tell him where to go, but there’s nothing. The horizon just keeps looming in the distance, the walls on either side of him rising up higher than he can see. He starts to run then, his breath puffing and he dodges roots, ducks under the occasional branch or jutted-out rock, focussing on the end of the pathway.

He has no idea how long he runs, but there is just… no end. He does not stop running though, not until sharp pains stab both his sides, not until the breaths in his chest _hurt_ and he has to slow down. He pants hard and high in his throat, slumping against the wall closest to him and resisting the urge to kick it in frustration. “Fucking magical labyrinth,” he wheezes between labored breaths, leaning against the wall and trying to focus on centering himself, “what kind of labyrinth has no doors or corners?”

“No doors, ya say?” a small voice near his ear pipes up and Geralt jolts back to his feet, whirling around and looking in all directions. He sees nothing and no-one and he grabs for his medallion, feeling it rest comfortably and still against his chest. No spells then, at least none like the ones in his world. He does not let up, though, carefully looking around.

“Who… who said that?” he finally calls out, mentally chastising himself. Is he losing it already, hearing voices where there aren’t any?

“Me!” Geralt strains his eyes, looking in the direction of the tiny voice. There, on a jutted-out rock at facial height, is a small, fuzzy, blue worm. Geralt stills, staring at the strange creature in disbelief. It stares back at him, its round black eyes blinking curiously as it smiles up at him, its small head tilting to the side in curiosity. “I couldn’t ‘elp but o’erhear. Ya new ‘ere?”

Geralt stares, perplexed, and it takes him a while to realize that he’s been asked a question. “I… yeah, I… I’m not from here, I mean. I’m just… passing through.”

“Thought so! With ‘ow ya were going on abou’ there not bein’ any doors, only the new ones talk like tha’!” The worm smiles up at him, the tufts on his head bouncing back and forth as he wiggles a little closer. “Did’ ya lose yer way?”

“I… well, maybe. I’m trying to solve this labyrinth, but I can’t find any doors or corners. It just goes on and on.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice tells him that he’s being ridiculous, talking to a _blue worm_. Not only that, he’s wasting precious time talking to this… thing.

“What’r you talkin’ about? There’s plenty a’ doors! There’s one righ’ across, look!” The worm indicates at the solid wall opposite the one it's perched on. "Go on, try it! You'll see what I mean."

Warily, Geralt approaches the wall, one hand carefully stretched out in front of him. He expects his gloved hands to hit solid brick any moment, but when this doesn't happen, he takes another hesitant step, then another and then he finds himself on a different pathway, one that branches to the left and right. It's an optical illusion, he realizes, cleverly hidden so that anyone passing by too fast misses it. How many of these did he pass when he wasn't looking for them?

He turns back towards the worm, which is smiling at him. "Ya see it now? All ya gotta do is look for a door and one will appear. Simple!"

Geralt nods once. "My thanks."

"Anytime! Say, where did ya say you're goin'?"

"I’ve got to solve the labyrinth," Geralt grunts out, suddenly anxious. Now that he knows what to expect, he's itching to be on his way. The clock is ticking and he still has a long way to go.

"Whew, ya got a long journey ahead! Better get on with it then. Off ya go!"

Again, Geralt nods in gratitude and he makes to take the left path.

"Wait no, don't go that way! Take the right path, that's safer!"

Geralt frowns, but decides he doesn't want to waste anymore time asking the worm what dangers are on the left path. Instead, he turns around and takes the right branch, keeping up a brisk pace. The sooner he gets to Jaskier, the better. This labyrinth sets his teeth on edge.

~

_Back on the ledge, the little worm watches with a shake of it's head, as the strange man continues on his way. "If he'd gone that way," it mumbles to itself, "he'd 'ave gon' straight to tha' castle."_

~

Even with the advice - if it can even be called advice - the worm gave him, Geralt has more trouble navigating the labyrinth than he expected to have. The pathways and walls eventually change from the dark, slightly damp bricks in the first part of the labyrinth to smooth, brown slabs of sandstone. The air around him changes too, going from the musty, swamp-like damp to a dry, warm climate, like a desert. He hopes this means he’s getting closer to his goal. As he thinks that, he tries to ignore the fact that he can no longer smell that whiff of camomile he detected at the start of his search.

At first Geralt tries to keep the castle in his sight, navigate by it, but the twisting paths and sudden corners make this a near impossible task. Next he tries to pick up any other relevant scents, but asides from sun-heated sand and the occasional tuft of dried grass, he can’t find anything. All the while, the treacherous sun creeps higher and higher in the sky, slowly but steadily, as if to mock him as well as remind him of his time limit. He tries not to pay attention to it too much, focussing on finding his way.

In the end, he picks up an almost white shard of rock from the ground and tries to mark his path with arrows as he goes along. He reasons that he can easily retrace his steps if he ends up at a dead end and pick another pathway without going in circles.

Of course, that plan only works until he actually finds his first dead end. Geralt rounds a corner of an irritatingly twisting pathway, only to find himself facing a wall. With a sigh, he turns around and starts walking back the way he came, when he notices it. The arrow he carved into the wall, the one pointing the way he was going… is now pointing the other way, back to the crossroads he was at earlier. He stares at it, almost willing it to be a trick of the light, willing it to be as he left it. 

When it stays the way it is, pointing back instead of forwards, he grunts. “Fuck.” Someone has changed his marking, which means they might have changed his earlier arrows as well, leaving all his attempts at mapping this labyrinth useless. 

“Ooooh, such language,” a chirpy voice pipes up from behind him and Geralt whirls around, startled to see a pair of doors instead of the previously blank wall. What makes him do another double take, however, are the faces peering at him from the doors. 

At first, Geralt thinks both doors have a small latch in them, from behind which four odd, dog-like creatures peer at him curiously, two of them at eye-height and two, upside down, at knee-height. But then he realizes that the creatures aren’t creatures at all, but elaborate decorations set in the door itself, carrying a shield, one blue and one red. The four faces regard him curiously, one of them still guffawing, trying to hide it behind the edge of the shield it’s holding.

“This was a dead end a minute ago,” Geralt finally grunts out, his eyes flicking back and forth between the creatures.

“No, the dead end is behind you,” the giggling one says, pointing past Geralt. The witcher turns around once more and finds that indeed, the labyrinth has shifted and he’s now facing a wall instead of the pathway he came from. He grits his teeth in annoyance, turning back to the doors and their strange guardians.

“That’s not fair,” he growls, “how can I find my way to the castle if the way keeps changing?”

“Oooh, scary face,” one of the upside-down guardians - the red one - says, rapping his long nails on the edge of the wooden shield, “I’m sure if you keep that up, the walls will be too scared to block your way.” He lets out another guffaw and his twin at the top of the shield rolls his eyes.

“Keep it down, ya blockhead,” he says, jostling the shield roughly so that it bashes against the chin of the upside-down one, who lets out a bellow, but does stop laughing. Over on the blue door, the guardians quickly smother their giggling and stare back at Geralt.

“Well then,” the right-up blue guardian says, “to answer your question, you could always try one of these doors!” At that, the other guardians perk up, as if standing to attention as their compatriot continues.

“You see these two doors of us?” the blue guardian says dramatically, gesturing to the two doors with a clawed hand. “One of them will lead you straight to the castle, while the other one leads to…” He pauses dramatically, at which the upside-down red guardian raps his nails on the shield ominously, like a drum signaling a cue.

“Certain death!” all four creatures bellow in unison, before howling in laughter together, jostling the shields they’re holding again.

Geralt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his gloved fingers. Trust someone who proclaims themselves to be the Ruler of Goblins to build an ever-changing labyrinth with trick walls and hidden doors and then have it guarded by absolutely useless creatures to boot. “Right,” he finally says, when the laughter has died down a little, “so which one leads to the castle? I need to get there.”

“Well, that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” the blue upside-down guardian pipes up, “You gotta solve the riddle first. You can ask one, and only one of us, one question. That’s the rules!”

“Yeah!” the right-up guardian adds, “You gotta figure out which door to pick, one question only!”

Geralt stares at the four grinning faces. “And what’s the catch? How do I know which one of you knows which door I need?” he finally asks.

“Aha!” the blue right-up guard exclaims, “He finally asks the right questions! The thing is, that one over there,” and he indicates the red right-up guard with a long, sharp-nailed thumb, “always lies, and I always tell you the truth.”

“Not true!” the red right-up guard guffaws, “You’re a first-class liar if I ever saw one. I always speak the truth, you’re the liar here!” His blue counterpart squawks in indignation at that and they keep going back and forth, yapping and shrieking as the blue upside-down guard cackles in delight.

The red upside-down guard rolls his eyes. “Now you’ve done it, white-hair. They will be at this for hours now.” 

Geralt grits his teeth. The screaming gets louder and louder, the shrill laughter of the blue guard not part of the fight piercing his eardrums like a knife, and he fights the urge to press his hands against his ears. 

“Hey!” he yells, startling the two fighting guards as well as their audience. Four pairs of round eyes focus on him. “I have no time for any of this, I just want to get through. You told me the rules, now let me think. In silence,” he adds, when one of the upside-down guards opens his mouth. He closes it with an almost audible ‘clack’ at Geralt’s glower.

Geralt start to pace back and forth, considering the rules they told him. Two doors, one of them leading him to his goal. Two guards, one of them lying, one of them telling the truth. One question. But what good is a question if he can’t be sure of the answer he gets?

Fuck, he really needs Jaskier for this. Geralt is good with a sword, can memorize the differences between a cockatrice and a basilisk while piss-drunk and knows to find healing herbs for his potions by smell. When it comes to riddles though, Jaskier is the one he looks to. The bard knows how to navigate the confusing wording of riddles, knows where the twists are and how to follow them. He would have no trouble solving this at all.

Geralt snorts at his own thoughts. Of course, the one time he truly needs Jaskier and he isn’t here. Geralt will have to solve this problem by himself. But as he thinks and thinks, pacing back and forth under the watchful gaze of the guards, he can’t get the hang of it. What door to pick? How does he make sure he knows the right door?

 _‘You’re not approaching this the right way’_ , a voice in his mind says and Geralt almost starts at how much it sounds like Jaskier’s voice. Not the right way? His goal is to pick the right door, how else is he going to get through?

But what if in focussing on his goal, he’s not looking at his path towards it? He pauses, goes over the rules one more time in his head. Two doors, one right and one wrong. Two guards, one telling the truth, the other one lying. And he has to figure out which one...

It’s not about figuring out which guard is lying at all! The thought hits him with a sudden clarity, like a bolt of lightning, as he remembers a riddle Jaskier told him not too long ago, of two villages and a single guide who could lead you to the right village as long as you know how to ask. 

Reinvigorated, he paces a couple more times, going over the riddle once more, practicing potential questions in his mind, until he’s quite sure he has the right question to solve it. He looks up and finds that the guards are watching him with baited breath. He looks between the red and blue door and finally opts for the red one. “I’ll ask you,” Geralt says, stepping up to the red up-right guard, whose face lights up. Geralt pauses, rehearsing the question in his mind one final time, then nods. “Alright. If I were to ask him,” and he points to the blue up-right guard, who seems surprised at being addressed, “if this door,” and he points at the red door, “leads to the castle, what would he say?”

The red guard blanches, going over the question a couple of times, mumbling to himself. Finally, he looks back up at Geralt. “He would say… yes,” he says, with a firm nod.

Geralt returns the nod. “So then… this door leads to certain death and the blue door leads to the castle.” He actually smiles a little at that. He figured it out!

“But… but how can you be sure?” the red guard says, “He could be telling the truth!”

“But then you wouldn’t be,” Geralt replies, getting more confident with the second, “so I still know the answer would be ‘no’.”

“But what if I were the one telling the truth?” the red guard replies, raising himself up above his shield.

“Then he would be lying!” Geralt replies. “So even if you said yes, I know the answer is still ‘no’!”

“Seems confusing to me!” the blue upside-down guards pipes up.

“I never understood it,” the red upside-down one adds, “can you explain it again?”

“Yeah!” the two right-up guards say, “Explain! How did you figure it out?” They all start to yap once more and Geralt feels his mood sour considerably. Now that he knows where to go, he wants to keep moving. He’s already used too much time solving this riddle.

“Just let me through the blue door,” he grumbles, “figure it out yourselves. The gods know you’ve got all the time you need.”

The blue right-up guard’s face falls, his grin fading and his green eyes staring Geralt down. “I’d watch that tone, if I were you,” he says, and his voice is colder than a mountain breeze, “you don’t want to get too arrogant here. You still have a long way to go.”

“Not as long as I get through the door. You said it yourself, it leads to the castle. Now open it.”

The guards chuckles, lowly and in the back of his throat. “Very well.” With a long moan of old hinges and wood, the door creaks open. Geralt huffs and shoulders his way into the narrow passageway behind it. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, witcher!” the guards calls after him.

Geralt growls and looks over his shoulder. “You can take your warnings and shove ‘em!” he shouts, “The sooner I’m out of this labyrinth, the better!”

The moment those words leave his lips, the ground beneath Geralt’s feet vanishes and he falls. He’s too slow to grab onto the edges of the trapdoor and he shouts as he starts to tumble down into a dark hole. His fingers grasp for anything to hold onto, his legs swinging as the wind whips around his face and he falls and he falls and he falls.

And then something strong grabs onto him and he isn’t falling anymore. His eyes adjust to the dark and he finds himself surrounded by _hands_ , all of them protruding from the walls around him. Thick fingers dig into his shoulders, his arms and thighs, encircle his ankles, tangle in his hair and he growls, wiggling and twisting in their grasp. “Fucking let go!”

Several hands in front of him twist together, forming a strange, almost face-like structure, moving in sync to mimic a mouth speaking as a voice booms at him from the darkness. “That’s not very nice to say to someone trying to help you.”

“Is this what you call ‘helping’ in this labyrinth?” Geralt grits out, still trying to get his hair free. The hand behind him tugs harder and he feels a strand loosening from his scalp.

“Of course! We are Helping Hands, after all!” The face dissolves as laughter rings around him and several new ones form around him, fingers and thumbs flapping and wriggling.

“Well then,” one on his left says, “which way would you like to go?”

The question throws Geralt off and he stops moving. “What?”

“Which way?” a face on his right guffaws, the ‘mouth’ flapping open and shut with each syllable. “Hurry up thought, we haven’t got all day and you’re a heavy burden, if we may say so.”

“I don’t care which way as long as you let me go!” Geralt tries to kick once more, the fingers around his ankle making it very difficult.

“Let go?” the face in front of him says, and it’s strange that a mouth with no lips can smirk at him so menacingly. “Well then, if that is your wish, we’re happy to oblige.”

Before Geralt can say anything else, the hands all suddenly vanish, dropping him unceremoniously and he falls again. This time, he does not bother to hold onto anything else. He keeps falling and falling into the dark, way longer than he thinks he should, until he loses all sense of orientation and time, tumbling and whirling through nothing. And still, he falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Geralt, I love you, but you are a complete dumbass.
> 
> I'm gonna speed up posting a bit. Next chapter will be up on Friday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I couldn't wait any longer. Consider that initial updating schedule forever gone, I'm just gonna update when I feel like it (which will probably be every two to three days)
> 
> The amazing and fantastic jammeke has made a lovely edit for this fic! I honestly freaked out when I saw it.  
> https://jammeke.tumblr.com/post/623030438996377600/makes-no-sense-to-fall-as-the-world-falls-down
> 
> Also, this chapter is LONG. I originally intended for this one and the next to be one chapter but... Geralt has so many thoughts and feels (and trauma) they could not be contained. So there.
> 
> Spot the reference! I had to incorporate it :D
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s a shock when Geralt finally lands - or rather, when he finally stops moving. He doesn't even know when he stops falling, only that one moment he is, then one moment he’s not. The sudden sensation of not-falling after falling for so long is jarring and so unnatural it takes him a while to realise what exactly has happened. 

Geralt does not get up immediately, still dazed and slightly queasy from his long fall. He remains where he is, on his back on a hard surface - rock, perhaps. He’s cold, but otherwise unharmed. A small part of him wonders how he could have landed safely after a long fall like that, but he decides not to question it. Like the Goblin Ruler said, the labyrinth seems to operate on completely different rules than his world does. He might as well count his blessings.

First things first, he needs to figure out where he is and, more importantly, how to get out. After checking that there is no low-hanging ceiling on which to crack his head open, Geralt carefully sits up and tries to look around. The room he’s in is dark and damp, barely any light, save for a nearly dead torch on a sconce on the wall. He grabs his tinder box from his belt and spends some time lighting the thick candle before looking again.

The room he’s in is all stone, rough-hewn walls with rusty chains and cuffs drilled into it. There’s moss growing in every crevice and he can hear water dripping from somewhere in a corner. Not a sign of life, not even skittering rodents or a sad pile of bones heaped up somewhere. Looking up, he can’t see a ceiling or sky, just darkness as far as he can see. It’s clear he’s fallen very far, further than should be possible. Asides from the way he came, though, the room seems to have no exit. 

When he realizes this, Geralt feels his stomach drop. He looks around again, trying to see any hidden doors like the worm taught him, but it’s no use. There is nothing. He’s stuck, dropped into some hole in the ground with no exit and no tools to climb out. And if he can’t get out, then Jaskier…

Defeated, he slumps against the wall behind him, his candle flickering and fluttering in his hand. “Fuck,” he groans, hearing the echo bounce off of the walls around him. No one answers, of course. He is completely alone.

It’s strange, he thinks, absentmindedly cupping the candle in his hand. He knows that the life of a witcher is a lonely one, that the Path does not allow for companions, but he’s never felt that loneliness as poignantly as he does now, alone in this, this cell, with only a candle for company. He’s been alone before, either by choice or by force, but this time it feels different and he can’t put his finger on why exactly that is.

Geralt brings one hand up and rubs his face, suddenly very tired. The still flickering candle casts strange shadows on the surrounding walls, which coil and twist like the shapeless nightmare of a child, wild and ever changing. He could close his eyes for a little while longer, perhaps. He’s so tired and the wildly dancing flame is soothing, moving in the soft breeze that kisses his face in passing.

… Wait.

Geralt opens his eyes, all thought of more rest forgotten. He sits up straight, looking around the room once more. He has not imagined this, there’s a gentle breeze coming from somewhere, somewhere close. What’s more, it’s carrying a scent with it, soft and spicy, of small white flowers with yellow hearts. Geralt climbs to his feet, candle in hand, and follows the scent to a far-away wall. He stands in front of it, the breeze that smells like camomile stronger here. At first, he can’t see anything, but when he moves his candle around, he spots a small strip where the moss seems… thicker, somehow. Putting the candle down on the ground, he pulls his knife from his belt and carefully starts to scrape the moss away.

Within minutes, he manages to scrape clean the small crack in the wall and he finds that it’s not a crack, it’s a seam running all the way down to the bottom of the wall and, he finds then he follows it with his fingers, up to a foot above his head, where it makes a sharp turn to the left. Feeling for the rest of it, he finds that there’s the shape of a door, neatly cut out into the wall. Geralt pushes the wall, gently at first, then harder when he doesn’t feel any movement. When he really puts his shoulder into it, he can feel the cut-out shift, a small trickle of sand and dust sprinkling down on him and making him pause to shake it out of his hair. Then, he pauses a moment to balance himself, takes a deep breath and takes down the wall with a well-placed stomping kick.

The cut-out part of the rockwall comes down with a satisfying thud, shaking loose more sand and dust when it lands. Geralt wipes his hands together, mentally congratulates himself on a job well done, and bends to pick up his tinder box before stepping into the strange hallway leading him out of and, hopefully, away from this cell.

The hallway has more light than the cell and Geralt quickly blows out his candle to have more use of his night vision. Putting his tinderbox away, he carefully inspects his surroundings. The hallway is cool, but dry, not damp like the mossy pathways of the labyrinth above. The breeze is still there, gently drifting around him, the scent of camomile alluring in a way he never thought it could be, and he sets to follow its source.

It’s not long until he comes across a ladder. It’s an old thing, rickety and probably a little rotten too, but it leads up to metal steps that in turn lead up into a vertical shaft in the ceiling. Geralt has no idea how far below ground he is, but any climb is better than none. After carefully testing the ladder, he steps onto the first rung, then the second, the third. The old wood creaks and complains under his weight and he freezes, his foot hovering in the air, but nothing happens, so he takes the next step and stretches a hand towards the metal rungs above. 

Thankfully, the ladder does not break until he’s got a firm grip on the metal, so he can hold on as the old wood crumbled and breaks under him and hoist himself up to the next metal rung, pulling himself up and up into the strange little tower. Now that he’s on the rungs, Geralt can see that there’s some sort of cover above him, like a latch or lid, but there’s light shining through the holes in its center.  
The cover moves surprisingly easy once he gets one shoulder under it and pushes, shoving it aside so he can climb up and out of the shaft and into the light. A soft, warm breeze brushes his face as he crawls out onto the gravel path and he stays down, taking a deep breath to center himself once more. Then he looks up to find himself in yet a different kind of landscape once more.

The area around him reminds him vaguely of the gardens of Toussaint, trimmed bushes and hedges and a gravel path between carefully manicured lawns. There’s rose bushes in carved marble vases, a small fountain and basin with crystal clear water and flower patches with marigolds, lavender, forget-me-nots and violets. And in the distance, visible over the tops of the hedges that make up the next part of the labyrinth, is the Goblin castle. 

Geralt jumps to his feet at the sight of the castle, bending down to quickly slide the cover back over the hole he climbed out of and then gets up again, peering at his goal in the distance. He’s significantly closer now, so close that he can see the front gate from where he’s standing, as well as the path leading up to it. 

Without warning, a cheerful voice sounds from somewhere close by, just around the corner of the path in front of Geralt. “Hmm, wow… this clover’s amazing. Now that’s what I call a bouquet.”

Startled, Geralt calls out. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” His hand is already on the pommel of his silver sword, ready for whatever is out there.

“Geralt? Is that you?” Fuck, this person, whoever they are, knows who he is, this is not good. “Man, you had me worried, you were taking _way_ too long.”

The sound of hooves drifts towards him and Geralt feels his entire world shift when _Roach_ comes trotting up at him from the path, her tail swishing as she walks. “I’m so glad you’re here though! You’re making great time. Have you figured out how this place works yet?” She walks until she is about four feet away from him, then stops, her ears upright and she gazes down at him expectantly, a gleam in her dark brown eyes.

“I…” The sensation of talking to a horse - _his horse_ \- is so jarring Geralt does not even register what she asked him. “Your voice,” he finally utters, “I thought… I would expect a young mare like you to sound… girlish.”

Roach snorts. “Based on what? Your vast experience with talking animals? Far as I know, I’m your first.”

Geralt pauses. As strange as this entire situation is, she actually has a point. “How are you even talking? Wait, nevermind that, what are you doing here? I left you at the foot of the mountain.”

“Yes you did, you rude witcher. You’re lucky I know the drill by now, because it never gets easier, being left behind for hours like that. I’m just glad you always leave me with enough snacks, because the waiting is _boring_ , let me tell you!” Roach shakes her head and snorts. “But still, you’re my human. Gotta be there when you need me, you know? I’ll be there for you-ou-ou, as the world falls down.” She actually sings that last part, trotting her front legs like a little dance.

Geralt takes a couple of seconds to process everything Roach is saying, plus the fact that Roach is saying them to begin with, and then he finds his words again. “You still haven’t explained how you got here or how you find me. It’s one thing for you to have walked up the mountain, but we’re not even on the Continent anymore. How did you get here?”

“That’s the funniest thing, actually,” Roach replies thoughtfully, “I was waiting for you to come back, as always, and I was a bit miffed because I had finished most of the hay and grass around me. Not to mention that rude stallion trying to make moves on me the entire time.” She huffs in disgust, then dismisses the thought with a flick of her mane. “So there I was, waiting and wishing for you to come back, because I do worry about you, you know. You’re not the smartest or most self-preserved human, so when you take a long time, a girl gets worried. So I wished very hard that you would be fine and return soon, as I do quite often, and the next thing I know, I’m in the greenest of fields, surrounded by wildflowers and the juiciest grass I’d ever tasted!” She whinnies softly, a look of wistfulness in her brown eyes. “That grass, Geralt, I swear. I will forever miss the taste of that grass when we go back home.”

Geralt, who has been nodding along to her tale impatiently, resists the urge to clack his tongue. He’s not sure he believes it really was as simple as that, but he doesn’t have the time to pick his horse’s brain over it. “Ok, so that’s how you got to this realm. But how did you know to wait for me here?”

“That’s easy! I just wanted to find you.”

Geralt waits for her to continue, to explain how exactly Roach managed to find him, but she just stares at him triumphantly, as if her explanation is the clearest thing she could say. “You wanted to find me…” he trails off, raising his eyebrows in a clear sign that he wants her to elaborate.

“Yeeees?” Roach replies, stretching out the word as if she’s talking to a child. “I set myself a clear goal and in such, my path towards it was clear. Honestly, Geralt, this is the first thing I learned as a filly, how is this news to you? To know your path, you must know what you want.”

Geralt frowns. “It can’t be that simple,” he mumbles, more to himself than to Roach, “or I would have been where I wanted to go hours ago.” His gaze drifts towards the castle, from which he can hear soft lute music once more, carried to him on the wind drifting past, along with the smell of camomile.

“Hmm,” Roach replies thoughtfully, “maybe the problem isn’t the path, but the one wandering it. Have you actually properly thought about where you want to go?”

“Of course I have,” Geralt bristles, “I need to solve the labyrinth to get to the castle.”

“You misunderstand me, Geralt,” Roach replies gently. “Sure, you know you need to get TO the castle, but why? What caused you to search for the way in the first place? What do you hope to find there?”

Geralt stares at his horse, trying to parse her words and, moreso, the hidden meaning behind them. If she’s here, she knows his reason for being here.

“I need to get to the castle,” he finally says, slowly, “because Jaskier is there.”

“That’s more like it,” Roach replies, nodding, “but not quite the entire truth, is it?”

“What more do you want, then?” Geralt snaps, getting more anxious. “Jaskier’s at the castle and I need to get there and that’s it. Simple! Now tell me something else. How am I supposed to solve this labyrinth if the way keeps changing?”

Roach pulls her ears back in irritation. “By the Gods of men and horses, Geralt, it’s like you haven’t heard a word I said. You have to be honest, with yourself at least if you can’t be with me. Ask yourself why you need to get to your bard so badly. If you don’t know these things, you will not find what you are looking for. You can’t keep on wandering aimlessly and then complain that you’re not getting anywhere.”

Geralt forces himself to take a step back, breathing in sharply through his nose. He’s had more than enough of this fluffy, vague talk. “Well, fuck me then, for not knowing. How am I supposed to know what I’m looking for if you won’t tell me?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” Roach bites back, stomping her hoof in frustration, “this is your journey, so you have to figure out your direction by yourself. You started all this, Geralt, whether you meant to or not. You can’t change that now, but you do have a choice. Face the consequences of your actions or bury your head in the sand, refusing any help offered to you. Just don’t come crying to me and complaining that it’s not fair.” She turns away from him, flicking her tail in irritation, and wanders off to a nearby field of wildflowers.

Geralt stays rooted to the spot, Roach’s words swirling around in his head. Facing consequences? Responsibility? He’s a witcher, damn it all, responsibility is the first thing he was thought from the moment he learned to hold a sword. To be a witcher is to stand between mankind and evil, to never back down or slack from duty. Besides, isn’t he dealing with the consequences of his actions right now? He’s trying to get Jaskier home, isn’t he? However, the more he thinks about it, the more he feels that Roach is referring to a lot more than just his current situation. That thought makes him bristle in indignation and, unfortunately, brings the heavy feeling of shame to his stomach..

He thinks back to a night he has tried to forget, in a kingdom he has not visited since. Back on that night, he put himself between two young lovers and a mother who did not want to lose her daughter, who only wanted what was best for her child. Only to turn around and put the couple he just helped through the exact same fate. Geralt feels a twinge of shame at how fast he left Cintra that night, as well as never bothering to check up on his Child Surprise since, telling himself that it was better to leave well enough alone than to doom a child to such harsh a life as his. That thought brings up memories of Yennefer and their last fight, where she told him almost the same thing.

Not that how he handled Yennefer and their relationship much better. Her words, harsh and biting as they were, had a grain of truth in them. He has been neglectful of her and her wishes in not telling her about the djinn, as well as his other stupid decisions. Again, not doing anything seemed like the best - and easiest - option at the time, the lesser evil, but now… now it only seems cruel to deny her agency, especially considering how many chains she’s had to break free of in her life.

He balls his fists in an effort to quell the renewed sense of shame rising in his chest. This is not the time or place, he decides, but he vows to revisit these thoughts as soon as he can. Loathe as he is to admit it, Roach is right. He’s been irresponsible and he’s hurt people with it. He’ll have to make amends for that soon, but for now, he better get going. 

Geralt slowly walks towards Roach, who is clearly enjoying the green grass and dandelions she found. He makes to say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he brings up a hand, gently placing it on her flank as he always does. She looks up at him, munching slowly, her brown eyes soft and understanding what he means without him uttering a single word.

Geralt gives her a half-smile and a soft pat, then gestures towards the archway ahead. "I better go, if I’m to get where I want to. Not sure I can come pick you up on the way back though. You good here for now?"

"Perfectly peachy," she replies, "and thanks for asking. I'll find my own way back, Geralt. Got here by myself just fine, after all."

He nods once, as does she, and then Geralt turns away and makes for the path ahead.He’s almost at the bend in the road when he remembers something, turning back to look at his horse over his shoulder. “You still haven’t explained how you’re talking right now.”

Roach looks up from the patch of daisies she’s nibbling at. “I’m always talking to you. This is simply the first time you’re actually listening to me.” She pauses, then flicks an ear at him, playfully. "See you soon, Geralt! Make sure you have your bard with you next time I see you."

~

The path Geralt follows is still winding and confusing, but for the first time since he entered the labyrinth, he can feel that he’s actually getting somewhere. It’s like his internal compass is no longer spinning aimlessly, like there’s a thread pulling him along the path. The thought is encouraging and he marches on, led by his gut and the occasional whiff of camomile drifting his way.

The intertwining hedges and occasional grassy plane or flower patch soon give way to yet another landscape. Tall trees frame him on either side, pine needles rustle under his feet and he keeps following that insistent tug tethered just behind his breastbone as the feet-flattened dirt path keeps winding and twisting ahead.

After a while, the scent of camomile fades from the air. It makes Geralt feel a little nervous, but he does not slow down, nor does he try to chase it. It has left him before, but it has always returned, so he’ll find it again, he reasons. Still, the absence of that little reminder of Jaskier stings, reinforced by the fact that he can’t see the castle from between the trees, nor hear the lute music that’s been ebbing and flowing from it. He clenches his jaw slightly at the rise of anxiety in his throat, then picks up his pace once more. The insistent pull in his chest is still there. He will not lose his way.

He’s so fixated on his path, as well as keeping his fears at bay, that he does not see the clearing up ahead until he’s walking into it. The sudden beam of sunlight bursting from between the foliage pulls him from his trance and he stares in disbelief at the clearing, or, more accurately, at the small cottage tucked between the wildflowers and strawberry bushes. Then his mind catches up with what his eyes are seeing and he feels a lurch of trepidation.

The cottage looks smaller than he remembers, but the clay walls are still the same shade, long since bleached by the sunlight. There’s a small crack running through one of them, near the wooden front door, which is still as crooked as it has been since that farmer kicked it open in a panic, because his daughter was choking and he’d shouted for help from... from...

The small door opens and Geralt can actually see inside, see the wooden table on which a small feast has been set down. Bowls of fruits and berries, mince pies and sweet rolls, a glazed cake with mint leaves, a loaf of bread with butter next to it. 

He stays right where he is, staring at the little cottage, the first home he knew, before that trek up the mountain, before Kaer Morhen. The straw roof rustles in the breeze, like it used to do during stormy nights as he huddled under the covers, scared of the thunder and calling for help, for _her_.

Geralt scoffs, then mentally reprimands himself for it. This must be a trick, he knows. It’s been so long since he last saw the little cottage, since he was forced to leave. For all he knows, the cottage doesn’t even exist anymore. She must have moved on, he thinks bitterly, left her son at the foot of a mountain and packed up shop and-

A soft voice calls from within. “Geralt? Are you out there? Come inside, dear, it’s dinnertime.”

He stands as if paralyzed, his breaths coming out in small, quick puffs, trying to tell himself that this can’t be real. This is a trick, something to distract him from his goal. It must be. She left him, after all, she did not want him. So why would she be here now?

Geralt makes to turn away, but then the breeze drifts past him and on it comes the smell of juniper berries and burdock, a combination he recognises instantly even though he hasn’t smelled it in so long. A figure moves into view, silhouetted by the light from the fire inside. Geralt whines in the back of his throat, so softly he’s sure only he can hear it, and he watches as she steps into the doorway, his heart hammering like a rabbit’s in his chest.

Her long, straight hair is still as vibrantly red as he remembers, long and parted in the middle, dropping down to the braided belt she always wears with that moss green kirtle of hers. Her face is ageless, as expected of a sorceress worth her salt. She smiles and looks him up and down slowly, as if she can’t fathom the sight of him, then holds out a hand to him. “It’s been so long, my boy. Come inside, you’ve travelled for so long, you need rest and food. Come and sit by the fire. We have so much to talk about, after so much time. Please.”

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head trying to take a step back, “no, I can’t, I have to go, to find…”

Visenna smiles at him, softly, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “Can’t you spare your mother a couple of minutes? Come sit with me, please, only for a little while. You can go back to your quest after a short rest.” She holds open the door of the cottage, one arm sweeping in a welcoming gesture. “I made your favorites,” she says, “come and tell me of what you are seeking. I’m sure it’s very important.” Her hair blows softly in the wind and the breeze carries another strong whiff of juniper with it, so sweet it’s almost cloying in his nostrils. 

Geralt bristles at her words, as if she has any idea of what he’s up against, of anything that has happened to him since she abandoned him. He opens his mouth to bite back an insult, wants to snarl at her for interrupting him, right when he’s found his way towards his goal, but…

Geralt blinks, his head suddenly clouded and fuzzy. “I…” he starts, “I was looking for… I have to go to…” Cobwebs settle in his mind, tangling his thoughts together in a blurry whirlpool. What was he looking for? The tug in his chest pulls insistently, desperately, but there’s another tug, a sense of longing for warmth and safety, for the embrace of his mother. But why? She left him, he tells himself, abandoned him at the foot of that mountain, to be picked up by Vesemir and brought to Kaer Morhen. She didn’t even have the gall to be honest with him, instead tricking him into looking away for a short while and running off. 

“I have to go,” he repeats, but the words come out without any bite in them, confused and a little warbled. He presses his knuckles to his temples, racking his mind for something, anything that can tell him where he has to go. He has to remember, he can’t have forgotten, this was important. Why can’t he remember?

Visenna is still in the doorway, her gaze on him. “Where do you have to go then? What were you doing before you came here?” Her voice is soft, almost hypnotizing, her gaze boring into his.

Geralt wants to answer her, he has to answer her, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth. His thoughts are sluggish and tired, rolling around in his mind like marbles through tar and he feels small and lost, confused in a place he does not know. Why did he even come here? When? How?

“Ma?” he asks, fixing his gaze on her in a desperate plea for clarity. She has to know what he was looking for, she has to. He feels like he’s going to cry, or scream, or faint and he needs her to center him.

“Come inside,” she says once more, and Geralt finds himself stumbling forwards, falling into her outstretched arms like he is a child once more, clinging to the fabric of her dress as she leads him inside the cottage. She has him sit at the laden table, his arms leaning heavily on the wooden surface and she holds him, petting his hair as he leans into her. 

“What was I…” he slurs, his eyes drooping, “I was looking… I don’t remember. It’s important, ma, I need to know what I… what I…”

“Shhh,” she says, still gently stroking his hair, “it’s alright. Stay here, I’ll make you some tea. You’ll feel better.”

She leaves his side for a moment and he leans forwards, his elbows on the tabletop and his head in his hands in a desperate attempt to make it stop spinning. He needs to remember, he has to remember. The sense of urgency grows the longer he sits there, hearing his mother putter around with a kettle and some strange smelling herbs. She returns soon, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and she sets it down in front of him. “Drink,” she says softly, her hand in his hair once more, fingers combing through it. “You need to rest. You carry so much, my boy, you deserve to let go.”

The mug is warm and comforting in his hands and he picks up lavender and fennel from it, anise and mint and something else, something spicy he can’t put a finger on. He lifts it slowly to his lips, the brew still scalding but he takes a slow sip, then another.

The spicy scent he can’t name grows stronger and he takes another large sip, the other herbs dancing on his tongue and hiding what he’s looking for. He drinks faster now, desperate to catch another hint of the scent and he sees something on the bottom of his mug, dancing around in the swirls of the tea as he downs it. When he’s down to the last couple of sips, he stops, pulling the mug away from his mouth to stare at the little flower at the bottom, drifting forlornly in the last dregs of the tea. It’s tiny, small white petals furling around the yellow heart and that scent drifts up from it, piercing through the cobwebs that have draped over his mind. 

Geralt drops the mug on the table, spilling the last sludges of tea and he stumbles to his feet. “What did you…” he slurs as he wobbles, his knees so weak he feels they’ll buckle at any moment.

“It’s alright,” she says in reply, stepping closer, “you’re safe. You don’t have to continue. You can stay here, with me. Wasn't that what you wanted, once?”

“I…” The world swims around him and the ground is suddenly much closer, or is he the one moving? Geralt sags against the wall, trying to keep his eyes open as Visenna approaches. “I need…”

Whatever he wants to say next is lost as his eyelids flutter shut. His chin drops to his chest and the wings of sleep gently furl themselves around him before carrying him off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-DUNNNN
> 
> Next up, my absolute favorite chapter to write and the actual scene that got to write this entire thing to begin with. Whoo boy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this, this bit is why I started to write this entire story to begin with. It is what I have been dreaming of, it is the one scene I really, really, REALLY want fanart of.  
> Am I angling for it? Maybe, but let me live :P
> 
> Also, this is the moment you really gotta listen to the song. You know the one.

He hears the music first, an exquisite tune, a mixture of a lute and a harp and something else, delicate but distinct from the other two. Then the laughter of many voices drifts towards him, carried on the melody of the strings. Geralt cranes his head and takes in the sight of the large foyer he finds himself in, marble floor tiles and white pillars with elegant curved decorations curling across the painted ceiling. He turns his head in the direction of the noise as another bout of laughter drifts his way, accompanied by clapping hands as the string music drifts to an end, then cheering as the players pick up another tune. The sound of applause dies down and is replaced by exited chittering, the rustling of fabric sweeping across the floor, the pitter-patter of many feet, moving in unison.

Dancing, he realizes as the music swells into an upbeat tune and the sound of feet speeds up. There’s some sort of party going on here. But where is here? How did he get here?

His hand darts to his right shoulder, fingers searching for the pommel of his sword, but only meeting air. Geralt chances a look at the same moment he recognizes that he does not feel the weight of his swords on his back, nor the chafe of his armor, the press of his belt, and he feels a surge of panic.

Movement from the corner of his eye has him spinning around, ready to take on whatever attacker has gotten the drop on him, but freezes at the sight before him. Geralt slowly drops his fighting stance, his hands unfurling from their clenched position as he regards himself in the tall mirror mounted on the wall in front of him.

He almost does not recognise himself, mostly from the lack of his gear than anything else. It is still his face, still his yellow eyes and white hair, but his clothes… Instead of his worn, leather armor, he’s wearing a white linen shirt, loose around his torso and with ruffles along the slit down the middle of it. Over the shirt is an embroidered waistcoat, dark grey and shiny, probably silk, judging by how soft it feels. His legs are clad in soft grey breeches, cotton by the feel of them but finer woven than any article of clothing he’s ever owned. His boots are black leather, shiny from the polish, with silver buckles that match the buttons on the coat he’s wearing to complete the ensemble. The coat is unlike anything he’s ever seen too, made of soft black velvet, the collar high and sharp, silver buttons on the cuffs as well as down his chest and longer on his back, split in two down the middle. His hair has been combed back and tied at the nape of his neck, held together by a black ribbon he can only catch a glimpse of when he turns his head. He looks, as much as a witcher can be called as such, _handsome_.

Another peal of laughter sounds from nearby and he finally tears his gaze away from his reflection to look in the direction of the sound. At the end of the hallway leading away from the foyer, he can see a set of double doors, dark wood with elaborate engravings and brass doorknobs. The doors are wide open and the music, as well as the sound of many people caught in their revels, seem louder now that he’s focussing on it.

Geralt hesitates for a moment, torn between curiosity at the nature of the celebration and the desire to stay hidden. But then he hears the lute start up again, the plucking of the strings resonating with something deep inside of him and he finds himself in front of the doors, peeking around the corner at the gathered masse.

The ballroom is a vision of white marble, just like the foyer, but it is much lighter, as if the ceiling is made of clouds and sunlight from outside is peeking through. A sweet scent slowly drifts towards Geralt as he gazes into the room, sweet and gentle and it makes his head go a little light. It gives the room an almost dream-like quality, like there is a shimmering mist or veil draped over everything and everyone in the room, making the people inside appear to be moving around just a little sluggish.

The people are unlike any group of party-goers he’s ever seen. Figures in the most lavish of outfits whirl around, their elegant dresses, robes and coats swishing as they twirls each other around, heads thrown back in mirth as the musicians on the side of the room play their tunes. Geralt stares as a lady in a shimmering, silver gown and jeweled mask is picked up and spun around by a towering figure in a red cloak and feathered hat, her ecstatic giggle ringing out over the heads of the other dancers. Another figure, all decked out in moss green, a mask decorated with flowers tied around their head, waltzes with a lithe character in deep blue robes adorned with golden stars, a matching mask on their face. They’re all masked, he realizes, not a single unconcealed face in the entire room.

Entranced, Geralt carefully peels away from the door, slowly stepping into the room. The dancers do not stop, but they move aside as he approaches, letting him pass undisturbed as he makes his way to the middle of the room. A figure waits for him there, clad in robes of ochre velvet and golden stars, their red hair in an elaborate mohawk braid with countless sparkling pins and their face half-covered by a mask of white and tawny owl feathers. They wordlessly watch Geralt approach, the other dancers giving the two of them a wide berth but still dancing around them to the tunes of the lute, the harp and the small harpsichord deftly played by lithe hands. When Geralt reaches the figure, they look at him, their silver-grey eyes cheeky and a smile on their painted mouth. They extend a hand, palm upturned in invitation, and a hush falls over the dancers closest to them, who start to whisper excitedly amongst themselves, staring whenever they can but not missing a single step in the dance.

Geralt stares at the hand in front of him, unsure of what to do. The strange quality of the air around him makes it hard to think and he has trouble remembering… remembering what? He knows his name, he knows he is here, but beyond that, his mind is almost blank, a fog rolling over his memories and thoughts as the music climbs to a crescendo, the dancers around them whirling and twirling as the final notes sing out from the strings. His thoughts drift further and further away as the music dies down, but as they do, he chances a glance at the musicians and his heart stops.

Like he heard before, there’s a harpsichord on the small podium at the side of the ballroom, a tall, lithe man sitting behind it, a satisfied smile on his face, hands poised for the next tune. Behind him sits a young maiden, a twinkle in her dark eyes, her dark curls bouncing as she tosses her head back and laughs, her hands already rising to pluck the strings once more. Geralt barely sees them, however, his gaze drawn to the third musician, who sits on a small chair with a lute in his hand and meets his gaze unflinchingly.

The man is tall too, but broad-shouldered, unlike his companions on the podium. His clothes are a rich royal blue, golden embroidery decorating his sleeves and the front of his doublet, which he wears mostly buttoned, except for the top button, through which the frills of his shirt are barely visible. Most of his face is hidden behind a mask, birdlike in shape and decorated with feathers in various shades of brown. Besides his mouth, only his eyes, piercing blue and vibrant, are visible, and the intensity in them does not waver as Geralt slowly makes his way across the ballroom, away from the figure in gold and towards the podium. The other guests do not part way this time, but they do not block his way either and after dodging several twirling pairs, he finally stands in front of the man, looking up at him. 

The man meets his gaze unwavering, long and deft fingers plucking the lute strings without missing a note. For a moment, they stare at each other, as the last notes of the song peter out once more and the dancers around them still, clapping and cheering. One of them approaches Geralt from the side, a statue of a woman in a blood red gown, reaching for his arm as if to drag him into the dance when it picks up once more, but he does not give her a chance. Instead, he takes one last step forwards, still holding the lute player’s gaze and holds out a hand in invitation.

For a moment, nothing happens, the entire room in tableau as the masked man stares at Geralt’s outstretched hand, as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then he lets out a surprised huff, a smile stretching across his mouth and he gets up, setting down the lute and sliding his hand into Geralt’s, hopping off the podium. The moment their fingers touch, a small spark seems to pass between them and something unknown yet achingly familiar swells in Geralt’s chest. He clutches the proffered hand a little more tightly as he wordlessly leads the man to the middle of the dancefloor. Another musician has made his way up onto the podium, taking up the abandoned lute and strumming it already, starting up a gentle tune that makes his companions fall in line easily. The music swells once more, slow and steady, and the dancers find new partners and start to circle once more.

The lights seem to dim slightly when Geralt and his dance partner start to sway. Geralt finds himself mesmerized by the man, the blue eyes twinkling behind the bird mask, the curl of his smile as they sway across the floor. The man’s feet move effortlessly to the music, stepping and skipping and tiptoeing around Geralt’s clumsy attempts at following him, but the witcher finds his footing quickly. One of his hands finds the man’s waist and it fits there nicely, comfortable in a way that should be alarming, but feels so right. The man smiles wider, gently squeezing Geralt’s other hand, which is tightly clutched by his long fingers and then they fall into line with the other dancers, whirling and waltzing, lost in the revelry and the music. 

Time slows down as they dance. Geralt vaguely wonders how his feet, clumsy and unsure at first, now seem to fall into step with his partner’s so easily, as he spins him around to the swelling music. The air around them seems to thicken, full of a musky perfume or incense, and Geralt’s dancing grows bolder, his steps more assured and wild. Overcome by the feel of it all, he dips his partner, making him laugh and it’s a sound so melodic Geralt wants to hear it again. He pulls the man - this musician, this lute player, _this songbird_ \- back to his feet and then lifts him up, twirling him above his head, making him whoop in delight. When the man comes back down, Geralt pulls him closer, emboldened by how delighted and happy the man seems in his arms and how warm and content he feels by that. The man sighs, his hair tousled and his mask slightly askew, and leans against Geralt, laying his head upon the witcher’s shoulder.

It should be too intimate, too close, but the man is warm and relaxed against Geralt and he’s struck once more by how right it all feels, like this is how they should be, always. His right hand drifts to the small of the man’s back, his left hand still holding those long, strong fingers, and he gently sways the two of them, his eyes drifting shut as he’s lost in the press of the man’s body, the hum of the music and other voices whispering in the background, the scents drifting towards him from everywhere in the room.

But then… Geralt opens his eyes as a familiar scent emerges from the bouquet around him. He sniffs, trying to catch it once more, to determine its source and finding that it’s his dance partner who smells so alluring. Still holding on tightly, Geralt lowers his face to the crook of the man’s neck and inhales deeply, trying to pretend the way the man’s breath hitches does not affect him. It’s floral, spicy and calls forth a tidal wave of memories. 

Geralt’s head starts to pound as his mind conjures up images, sounds and sensations he at first does not recognise, but which get more and more familiar by the second. At first it’s only the smell, which he now recognises as camomile, but that realisation seems to unlock a door in his mind and the onslaught of images intensifies, spiraling into a whirlwind. Late nights around a fire, a lute being plucked, the notes accompanied by a melodic voice. An endless stream of babbling that won’t let up, enthusiasm and longing evident in the speaker’s words. Soft hands that soothe his injuries after a hunt, help him out of his armor, wash him when he’s too tired to do it himself. Bright eyes meeting his from across a room - in an inn, in a castle, anywhere - as the people gathered cheer to the music being played, played on a lute with floral engravings and inlaid with precious metals. And the one holding that lute...

Geralt starts and pulls away from his dance partner, whose hands twitch momentarily as if to pull him back in, blue eyes wide and bright and so familiar behind his feathered mask.

“Jaskier?” 

The moment the word falls from his lips, several things happen at once. The musicians halt their playing abruptly, their notes souring as the ceiling above them darkens to a deep indigo, almost black, and a sharp wind starts howling. The partygoers around them scream, the cacophony of their combines voices shattering the spell of the room, and they start to move en masse, their fluttering clothes and masks thrashing about like they’re in the middle of a hurricane. From the ceiling - or is it the sky? - thunder cracks, lightning flashes and a downpour starts, light at first but soon harsh and icy cold.

Geralt instinctively pulls his partner closer, attempting to bring a protective arm around him, to shield him from the torrential onslaught as the other people in the room scream louder, running around in an attempt to escape the storm. The feather mask tickles against his neck as the man curls his fists in Geralt’s jacket, awakening a fierce sense of protection in the witcher’s chest and he tries to tighten his grip at well, tries to hold on as the room darkens.

Then he feels his feet leave the ground and they’re being pulled into the storm, desperately clutching at each other as the winds pull at them. The more they spin, the looser their grip gets and and the man’s hold onto Geralt’s sleeves starts to falter as the storm intensifies once more. His eyes are wide with fear behind his mask, his mouth moving but the winds are so loud Geralt can’t make out a single word. 

“Hold on!” he yells, gripping onto the man’s arms, trying to pull him closer once more, desperate not to lose him, “Don’t let me go!”

But it’s a losing battle. The winds howl around them as they plunge into darkness, still clinging to each other, twisting and turning through the air. Geralt feels his grip on the man’s arms slipping and he scrambles to hold on, his fingers cramping from how tight he’s holding on. He feels the man being pulled from him, his heart leaping in his throat at the realisation and makes one final grab for him. Doing so, however, proves to be a mistake. 

With a shout, the man in blue is torn from his grasp, spiraling away from Geralt into the darkness. Geralt lets out a shout in return and kicks wildly into the air if he can follow, but he is pulled into the opposite direction, away from his songbird, no matter how he screams. His eyes water - either from the wind or the sheer agony of being alone again - and he loses sense of direction as the wind pulls him further and further away. He pulls his arms and legs close in an attempt to make himself smaller, letting the storm carry him until he goes still and numb as everything around him shatters and splinters and fades into a numb, thoughtless void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs dreamily* 
> 
> Comments are gold, as always.


	5. Chapter 5

Light.

Geralt blinks at the sunlight in his eyes, then frowns. He’s walking on a dirt road, which is sloping upwards and further into the mountains, framed by coniferous trees on either side. The air is cold and crisp around him, his breaths forming clouds as he stands and looks around. 

He knows this road, these trees, these mountains. The way the sun hits the peaks in the distance, the smell of the trees, the birds chirping in the branches… He starts to walk again, faster this time, almost running up the mountain and further along the path, until he rounds the final bend and sees it.

The keep of Kaer Morhen is a shadow of its former glory, its stones crumbling, most towers collapsed, and the flag of the School of the Wolf - trampled during the sacking - tattered and torn as it blows in the wind. But here is where Geralt spent most of his formative years, where he grew up and learned and even after everything that happens, seeing it makes his breath hitch.

The sound of metal clashing snaps Geralt out of his reverie and he starts, already grabbing for his own sword. But then he realises that the sound is accompanied by playful banter and cheering and he relaxes, his hand dropping from the steel on his back and he steps through the gates and into the courtyard.

Said courtyard is buzzing with activity, more than he expected. The center of attention are the two witchers showing off their sword fighting skills, moving around each other with the ease only well-practiced witchers can boast. Geralt can’t see their faces with how fast they are moving, but the way they move is amicable, a visible proof of their familiarity. 

The sword-fighters are not the only ones in the courtyard. Now that he’s closer, Geralt sees more figures along the sides of the courtyard, surveying the training. He squints at them, trying to make out who they are, but it’s like there’s a milky film over his eyes. No matter how much he tries, he can’t quite focus on their faces, only catching vague outlines and movements. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to clear them. He should know this, should know who these people are. They are in his home and more than that, they feel like they should be here, so why do their names and faces elude him?

“Geralt!” He opens his eyes to see that the sword fighters have ceased their demonstration and one of them is approaching him at a fast pace, sword sliding into its scabbard on his back. “Brother!” the figure exclaims, his arms wide, as if to embrace Geralt, “You made it! We were starting to worry you wouldn’t make it this year. Lambert was about ready to jog back into town and drag you over here!”

“Fuck you and your tall tales, Eskel!” one of the figures against the wall yells as the witcher now in front of Geralt - _Eskel_ , his mind whispers as the face of the man in front of him swims into view - clasps Geralt by the forearms and looks him over, almost scrutinizing him. From behind his brother and classmate, Geralt sees the form of Coën, calm and collected as ever, sheathing his own sword and saluting him with a small grin.

“You don’t look too hot, old man,” Eskel says, a twinkle in his yellow eyes, his grin still as lopsided as ever in his scarred face. “The road up getting to much for you in your twilight years?”

“I…” Geralt knows he should have a witty retort ready, but Eskel’s question makes his head spin and he feels a surge of panic. “How did I get here?”

Eskel pauses, his grin faltering and being replaced by a look of worry. “The same way you do every year? I would ask if you have trouble remembering the path, but you made it in one piece, so that can’t be it. Are you doing alright?” 

“I… I don’t know,” Geralt chokes out, trying to focus on his brother’s face. The familiar scars twitch as Eskel’s expression becomes one of worry, yellow eyes boring into Geralt’s own. “I don’t remember getting up here, Eskel. I don’t know how I got here, where I was before. I… Something is wrong.”

“Hey, hey,” Eskel says softly, giving Geralt a gentle shake when he starts to sway, “calm down, you’re safe here, you’re home. Come on, let’s get you seated, that’s it.” He takes Geralt by the arm and gently pulls him over to the rest of the group, who make way for the two of them as Geralt is helped onto one of the rough-hewn wooden benches. Eskel kneels in front of him, his face still a mask of concern. “Coën is getting you some water. Did you take anything to make the trip easier? Maybe Blizzard or some Tawny Owl?”

“No… I don’t think so.” Geralt presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, wishing his head would stop spinning. 

“Move aside, boy,” a gruff voice says and Geralt feels Eskel move aside, his hands leaving Geralt’s knees. Another figure kneels in front of him and it takes Geralt a moment to recognise the old face, the hair greyed with age rather than mutations. Vesemir’s face is perfectly neutral, save for the slight krinkle between his brows as he checks Geralt over. “No signs of toxicity, so it’s probably no potion.” He slaps Geralt’s cheek, gentle enough not to make it hurt, but the sensation does help to center him a little. “Hey, focus on me, Geralt. Calm yourself, you’re safe. Remember your training, you are in control. Calm down.”

Geralt forces his shoulders to relax, breathing in deeply through his nose, just as Coën’s worried face appears over Vesemir’s shoulder. He says nothing, instead holding a wooden mug out to Geralt wordlessly. With a nod of gratitude, Geralt takes the mug and takes a long sip of the cool water. It helps him even his breathing and he takes another sip, draining the mug and feeling his heart slow down to it’s usual rhythm. Only then does he look up and meet the gaze of his fellow witchers.

“Good,” Vesemir grunts, still kneeling in front of him, “now tell us what happened. You’re usually not this late to arrive.”

Geralt makes to start talking, but then he pauses. Even though he’s calm now, he still can’t quite remember how he got to Kaer Morhen. But what he does remember…

“I was looking for something,” he says, “but I can’t quite remember what. It was important, though.” As he says that, something in the back of his mind starts aching, like an insistent itch begging to be scratched, if only he could find it. 

Vesemir sighs, then gets up slowly. “If it was as important as you say, you’ll remember it in time. For now though, you must be tired from your trip. Come on, let’s go inside. It’s getting late enough as it is.”

Geralt frowns. It may be past midday, sure, but the sun is not yet behind the mountains in the distance. “I’m not tired.”

“Even so, you were in a bad state when you got here,” Vesemir replies, in a tone of voice that suggests contradicting him would not be wise, “come on. You need rest. A Witcher who does not take care of his body does not last long on the Path.”

Wordlessly, Geralt stares at his brothers, who have turned to follow Vesemir into the keep. Eskel strays behind a little, looking at Geralt over his shoulder. “Come on, Geralt, there’s food inside. You need to eat.”

A voice drifts forth from the hidden depths of his mind. _'Even you can’t go on without sustenance, dear Witcher. You need to eat.'_ Geralt knows that voice, he knows he’s heard it before, even if he can’t remember when or where, but the more he tries to recall, the harder it gets. 

“What’s keeping you, old man?” Lambert calls from the front door, grin as cocky as ever. “If you take too long, I’ll have your portion, just you wait!” He lets out a loud guffaw before walking in, calling out after Coën, who yells something vulgar in return.

Maybe they’re right, Geralt considers, maybe some rest and food it what he needs. He can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something very important, but then the smell of venison stew drifts towards him from the still open door and he feels his stomach grumble. Fuck, how did he not realise his hunger had gotten that bad? 

_'I wish you took better care of yourself,'_ comes that voice again, unbidden. _'I worry about you sometimes, you know.'_

Geralt growls now, as if he can make the thoughts vanish like that. Whoever that voice belongs to, if they are even real, he has no patience for them. He’s with his brothers, in the only place he has called home, and that is all he needs right now.

Eskel stares at him as he makes his way over to him, something unreadable in his eyes, but then it vanishes and he grins once more. “Glad you’re home, Geralt.”

“Glad to be here,” Geralt grunts, slapping Eskel on the shoulder, “I can’t believe how long it has been.”

Eskel stops and turns back to Geralt, grin gone once more. “What do you mean? It’s only been a year.”

That… that does not seem right. Sure, he used to winter at Kaer Morhen every year, but he hasn’t done that for a while now, has he? No, he’s not been back here for at least two years, not since… since…

The world starts to spin once more, but this time it’s different. Instead of his head hurting and his vision getting blurry, it’s the edges of the world around him that start to waver, like hot air over a stone path. Geralt grunts, shakes his head, but it does not stop. The sense of urgency returns on full force and he stares at Eskel, whose expression has become… guarded. Wary, in a way Eskel never is, not when he’s looking at Geralt, and there’s a glint in his eyes that is so unlike his brother that Geralt almost makes to grab for his sword.

“No, Geralt,” Eskel says, and his voice lacks that warmth it always has, instead almost monotone and cold, “you have been here every year for the winter, as you always have. That is how you prefer it, is it not? Safe and hidden amongst your family. That is all you need.” 

“But… wait, no, that’s not…” He can feel his pulse quickening, blood pounding in his ears. “There’s something… there was someone, someone I…” Need? Want? Miss? Geralt can’t remember, why the fuck can’t he remember? 

A breeze brushes past him, tangling in his hair and kissing his cheek and with it comes a scent that all at once snaps the world back into focus. Geralt turns, ignoring Eskel calling his name and looks around. From the cracks between the bricks of the gate, a small sprig of tiny flowers grows, its small white and yellow flowers turned towards Geralt. Another breeze rustles the slender stalks and carries the sweet and spicy scent towards him, as if it’s trying to tell him something. Geralt all but runs towards it, vaguely aware of his brothers’ voices calling for him to come back, to come inside. Instead, he kneels next to the small plant, bringing out a hesitant hand and brushing a finger along the tiny petals, which shudder and curl, as if his touch tickles.

“Camomile,” he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else. Plucking one of the small flowers, he carefully brings it up to his face, rubbing it between his fingers. The scent that wafts from the crushed bloom sends another wave of familiarity, of safety and maybe even contentment through him. And something more, he realises as he plucks another. This plant means something to him, something he doesn’t remember. Or does he?

“Geralt, what are you doing?” Vesemir’s brusque voice cuts through his reverie. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and Geralt reluctantly gets up and turns to his mentor. “What are you picking at those weeds for?”

“They’re not weeds,” Geralt mumbles, still clutching the flower, careful not to squeeze too hard and crush it.

“Even so, a witcher has no use for it. Don’t let yourself be weighed down by unnecessary things, Geralt. It will make you slow, especially when you can’t afford it.”

Geralt frowns. “It’s a flower.”

Vesemir scowls, as if frustrated at Geralt’s inability to grasp the deeper meaning of his words. “It always starts small, Geralt. A flower, a button, a ribbon, and before you know it, you’re stuck with something you did not see coming and can’t get rid of. Best not to let it happen. Now throw it away.”

_If life could give me one blessing…_

Geralt snarls and clutches the flower to his chest, unsure of why he’s even doing it. “Don’t touch it.”

“You do not need that weed, Geralt.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t matter. I want it.”

“Want?” Vesemir scoffs. “You are a witcher. As long as you are on the Path, your wants come second. You have a duty to humanity, you can’t afford to give in to your personal whims.”

_'Come on, you must want something for yourself, once all this monster hunting nonsense is over with.' ___

__The words come to mind unbidden, and with them, a memory, of a bath in an inn, hot water being dumped over his head, accompanied by the smell of floral oils, clever fingers and witty retorts. A smirk, startling blue eyes and a voice…_ _

_'Well, who knows? Maybe someone out there will want you.'_

_'I need no one. And the last I want is someone needing me.'_

_'And yet, here we are.'_

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes and it’s like the name is a key that unlocks the door from behind which his memories spill forth. Jaskier, playing that infernal song to a gaggle of patrons at the inn, laughing as they cheer and sing along. Jaskier walking alongside Geralt and Roach, humming and babbling and constantly veering off the path to pick flowers or berries or just to admire a tree or bush, claiming it filled him with ‘poetic spirit’. Jaskier dressing his wounds after a bad hunt, washing him, combing his hair and rubbing it with…

Camomile oil! Geralt stares at the small flower in his hand, overwhelmed by the onslaught of memories. How could he have forgotten Jaskier? How could he…

The labyrinth. The wish Geralt made in a moment of anger, unjust and cruel, and the consequences he did not wish for but has been trying to make right. He was well on his way, he remembers, getting closer and closer to the castle.

Geralt curls his fingers around the small flower, smiling. “I have to go,” he says.

“Why?” Geralt looks up and sees Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring at him. “Why would you go back for him?” Vesemir asks him. “After everything he did to you? He forced a Destiny upon you you did not want, Geralt. He does not deserve your help.”

“No,” Geralt replies, his back straight and his head held high, “he didn’t do anything to me. I did that to myself and he’s been with me through it all. I’m going to find him and we’re getting out of here.”

“And then what?” Lambert smirks, his eyes two tiny slits of yellow. “Back to the Path, if he even wants you back? After what you said to him, do you really think he’ll follow you again?”

“I won’t leave him here,” Geralt growls at the spectre of his brother, “I will get him back home.”

“But why?” Eskel’s voice is gentler than Lambert’s, a gentle expression on his face. “Why not just stay here? You know what your world is like, how cruel its people are. We can protect you, keep you safe from everyone, from Destiny. You can be safe here. We can keep you safe..”

“You have nothing I want,” Geralt bites back, “You aren’t even real. You’re not my brothers, this isn’t home.”

“But you could pretend it is,” Eskel says, cocking his head to the side, “we can give you anything you could ever wish for. Or rather, anyone.” With that, he steps aside, making way for a fourth figure. 

Geralt should have expected it, really he should have, but the sight of raven curls and purple eyes still sends him reeling. Yennefer - or, rather, the being pretending to be her - smiles, carefully stepping forwards, holding out a hand to Geralt. “Stay here, Geralt. Be with me. You can be happy here. No Destiny to get in our way, no Child Surprise and no one to take me from you, ever again.”

Geralt stares at her outstretched hand. Despite knowing that she's not the real Yennefer, he's bombarded by that same mix of anticipation and longing he always gets when he finds her, along with the sour feeling of regret. Part of him still wants to take that hand, drown himself once more in the lightning and thunder of her being, forget everything outside of the small cocoon of oblivion she always provides. It's that realisation, though, as well as the more pressing tug of that invisible thread in his chest, that sets his resolve. Whatever he feels for the real Yennefer - wherever she is - dwarfs in comparison. She was right; it's not real. It's unfair to the both of them to continue this and he vows that once this is all over, he will find her and offer his help and an apology. He owes her that much, at least.

For now, though, he has a journey to continue and he focuses on the mirage in front of him once more. “You don’t get it at all, do you?” he says, stepping back carefully, “I don’t want anything you can give me or pretend to be. No matter what you say or change into, I will never be happy here.”

Yennefer’s face twists into a scowl and the beings pretending to be witchers growl in unison. “You would throw us away?” she yells, “For what? A life of hardship, of uncertainty? I offer you all of this and you throw it in my face?” She actually stamps her foot in a convincing imitation of the real Yennefer, her purple eyes flashing. “What could your world possibly give you that we can’t?”

“Something the real Yennefer would tell you is worth more than illusions of comfort,” Geralt growls, now certain that he’s making the right decision, “choice.”

The thing wearing Vesemir’s face snarls and leaps forwards to make a grab for Geralt, but he’s ready for it. His silver sword flashes, a spray of dark blood and the being lets out a scream, high and grating and so unlike anything humanoid that it breaks the last of the illusion around them. The walls of the fake Kaer Morhen start to crumble, its deceitful inhabitants shrieking as the rocks and bricks falls down, hitting them on the way. With a loud groan, the wooden gate behind Geralt splinters and collapses, the arch above it shattering, sending pieces of old brick and mortar flying.

Geralt uses the confusion to his advantage, making a break for the gate. Long, sharp fingers grab for him, the creatures now dropping all pretense of being his friends, their features melting away and revealing sharp teeth and black eyes. Geralt feels one of them grab a hold of his long hair and he yanks his head forwards, feeling the leather tie slip out as he does. In three long leaps, he’s out of the gate, which collapses in earnest the moment he’s through, trapping the creatures inside. Their shrieking follows Geralt long after he runs down the stone path, as much as he tries to block them out.

Geralt keeps on running down the mountain, not picking a direction by logic but by following that tug, that tetherin his gut that has returned full force the moment he left that place pretending to be his home. He still clutches the sprig of camomile close, its sweet scent focussing him like nothing else as he keeps running. 

Only when his sides start to hurt too much to continue does he slow down. His vision is blurry with lack of oxygen and he bends over, leaning forwards with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath and willing his heartbeat to slow once more. He does not hear anything following him, so he takes his time to catch his breath and wills his body to stop aching. He does not have much time left, he realises, he must hurry.

When he finally feels he’ll be able to take another step, he slowly rights himself, ready to focus on the feeling of direction that is still tugging insistently. The moment he gets fully upright though, he actually lets out a laugh.

Before him, the Goblin Castle rises in its full glory, red brick and spiraling towers, higher than he can see. From one of the small towers, he can pick up the faintest hint of music and the sound makes his heart lurch in a way it has never done before. He made it! He’s reached the castle! He’s almost found Jaskier.

As if on cue, the dark wooden gate in front of him opens, seemingly on its own. It groans like only large wooden gates can do, all the way until the doors bang against the walls behind them, open to their fullest capacity. The hallway beyond them is dark, no movement or sound at all, almost as if to lull him into a false sense of security.

Geralt smirks. If the Goblin Ruler thinks they can scare him off, they’re in for a surprise. He looks down at his hand, still clutching the camomile, before carefully sliding it behind his ear, close enough that he can still smell it. Then he readies his silver sword and steps into the darkness of the castle, ready as he’ll ever be.

“I’m coming, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles, softly, “I’m almost there.”


	6. Chapter 6

It’s strange, Geralt thinks as he steps into the dark front hall of the castle, how much time seems to have passed since he started his journey. Everything that led up to this moment feels like it happened a lifetime ago, to a different person, a witcher who did not understand what he was doing or losing. Logically; he knows it has not even been a full day - at least, he hopes so - but after everything he’s been through to get here, he feels like he took much longer than the thirteen hour limit the Goblin Ruler gave him.

That thought brings along an icy surge of panic and Geralt forces himself to focus on the task at hand, shaking off any distracting thoughts. He has to find Jaskier. He’s almost there.

As if on cue, the large doors slam shut behind him and the torches along the walls of the hallway flare up in synch. The hallway is large, a set of stairs leading up to another floor, surrounded by white marble pillars, just like the ballroom. The memory flows back, accompanied by nauseating worry. Was that even real? Did he really dance to that strange, lilting music, with that mirage of Jaskier in his arms? 

Geralt is pulled from his thoughts when the large doors at the top of the stairs swing open. The Goblin Ruler stands there, their robes such a dark shade of violet they almost seem to suck the light out of the room, a crown of pale silver and crystals on their blazing curls. “Welcome, witcher,” they say in a pleasant tone of voice, as if they are hosting a party and Geralt is a guest, “I’m glad you made it.”

“I told you I would,” Geralt replies, forcing himself to sound civilized. He’s only mildly successful, partially because he is gripping his sword. “Now give me back my bard. I fulfilled your demands, I crossed the labyrinth. Where is he?”

The Ruler’s face shifts slightly, their smile curling a little more and their eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. “Not so fast, my dear witcher. You did cross the labyrinth, you did find my castle. But I can’t just give you back your bard.”

Anger flares up in his veins. “You fucking liar,” he growls, raising his sword, “you told me I would get him back when I got here.”

“I told you you could _find_ him here,” the Ruler replies, grey eyes boring into Geralt’s, that infernal smile gaining an almost sharp appearance the longer Geralt looks at it, “getting him out of here, however, will prove to be a completely different matter.”

Geralt snarls and barges towards the stairs, taking the first three steps in one go. “Give him to me, right now, of I will run you through where you stand!”

The Ruler’s eyes darken and they hiss, their lips curling back to reveal sharp fangs, giving them an almost cat-like appearance. Geralt makes it up two more steps before he starts having trouble lifting his feet. Looking down, he sees that the stairs beneath his feet have liquified, becoming sludgy and tar-like, sticking on his boots. He growls louder now, pulls his right foot free and takes another step, but then he’s stuck. His feet sink partially into the stairs and he can’t pull free, no matter how much he struggles. Thankfully, he maintains his balance, his sword still firmly in his grip, and he stares up at the Ruler from his spot halfway up the stairs, teeth bared.

“I will not threaten you, witcher,” the Ruler says, their voice so cold Geralt expects icicles to drop from their lips, “as you are my guest. But I will give you a warning. My hospitality is not endless. As you are under my roof right now, you will behave. You won’t like the consequences if you don’t.”

They stare at each other for a moment, both of their faces still twisted in a snarl, but then the sound of lute strings drifts out from the open doors behind the Ruler and Geralt’s heart surges. “Jaskier!” he shouts, momentarily forgetting that he is stuck and almost toppling over when he tries to run up the stairs. 

The Goblin Ruler’s face relaxes a bit, although they still regard him with distrust. “I promised you a chance to win back the bard if you made it in time. You found your way, despite getting lost more often than not, and I admit that I expected you to give up. You have won your chance fairly. But I will not allow you to take him against his will.” Geralt moves to contradict them, but they hold up an authoritative hand, effectively silencing him. “I am not the one you need to convince here, witcher. I still think you are undeserving of him and his attention, but a promise is a promise and I will be fair. I request that you, in turn, be fair to him.” And with that, they step aside and gesture towards the still open doors, from which lute music and the scent of camomile drift towards Geralt. As they do that, Geralt feels the stairs solidify under him once more, releasing him and allowing him to go up.

Shocked, and a little unsure of what just happened, Geralt slowly makes his way up the stairs, sheathing his sword as he does. He feels a little exposed without it, but something in his gut tells him that it's the right thing to do. He halts only when he’s in front of the doors, half-turning towards the Ruler, who answers his questioning look only with a neutral expression on their face. Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again when he fails to come up with anything to say. Instead, he gives them a slow but firm nod, which they return. Then he turns back to the doors and walks in, feeling the gaze of the Goblin Ruler on his retreating back.

The room Geralt enters is dark once more, only illuminated by the light from the hallway he came from, which is snuffed out when the doors close gently behind him. He’s not in the dark for long, though. Again, torches blaze to life simultaneously, lighting up the entire room at once and Geralt feels a horrible sense of dread dawn over him when he sees it in all its glory.

It’s not even a room, even though Geralt’s mind can’t come up with any other word for what he sees. The space he entered is contained within a stone floor, walls and ceiling, sure, but it’s large, vast in a way he has never seen before. That is not what made him pause though. Instead of doors, furniture or even pillars, the room he entered - more of a hall, actually, than a room - is filled with twisting, dazzling staircases, all made of the same greyish-brown stone. There’s stairs leading up, stairs leading down, left and right, sideways and upside down stairs that all make up yet another maze, but one unlike any he could have imagined. 

Geralt almost gives up right then and there. After everything he’s been through, all the creatures and traps and tricks, he’s so tired. This is too much. But then the lute music starts up once more, a lovely simple folk tune, familiar and warm like the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder and he looks up.

It takes Geralt a moment to take in the situation, however, as his eyes and his mind are fighting to make sense of what he sees. Jaskier is sitting in a large window, lute in his lap, distractedly plucking the strings and humming along as he stares outside. What makes it all so strange, though, is that Jaskier is sitting _on the ceiling_. The windowsill he’s perched on is upside-down, and so is the bard, but… his entire posture is relaxed, as if he’s just having a quiet moment, completely unaware that he should be falling towards Geralt, unaware that Geralt is even in the room with him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, then repeats it, louder. “Jaskier!”

The bard does not even flinch. He just keeps on playing and humming distractedly, upside-down as he is, his toes tapping along with the song. _“... once I am king, dilly-dilly, you shall be…”_

“Jaskier, I’m here!” Geralt all but shouts, waving his arms in an attempt to catch Jaskier’s attention, despite knowing that it’s futile. Jaskier is turned away from him, for one, and while Geralt can hear him just fine, the bard seems to be unable to hear his shouts. 

Geralt tries again, walking around and trying to angle himself such that he’s within Jaskier’s field of vision. He shouts, waves, runs back and forth, to no avail. Jaskier can’t or - maybe - won’t hear him. Very well, then Geralt will have to try and get his attention some other way.

Reinvigorated, Geralt dashes up the nearest set of stone stairs, which lead up to a landing with a doorway. Said doorway leads to a short hall which in turn ends in another open doorway and up more stairs, which Geralt climbs in a hurry. If he can get a sense of how many floors are between him and Jaskier, he can navigate his way towards the bard easily.

But when he gets to the final landing and the large, open window with the wide stone windowsill, Jaskier is nowhere to be seen. Confused and not a little scared, Geralt looks around, his ears pricked in an attempt to listen for any indications of where Jaskier might have gone. 

Soft humming drifts towards him and Geralt looks around in disbelief, spotting Jaskier on a sideways set of stairs far below the landing Geralt is on. He’s curled up in himself, hugging his lute rather than playing it, and humming a forlorn little tune to himself, his gaze unfocussed and his expression slack. Geralt considers yelling and waving once more, but decides against it, instead turning around and running down the last set of stairs he took. Unsurprisingly, the hallway he ends up in is different than the one he went through just a moment ago, but he does not let it bother him and soon finds himself on another platform, right next to the stairs Jaskier was just on. Again, however, the bard seems to have left, only leaving behind the faintest whiff of camomile oil. Geralt grits his teeth in annoyance, trying to quell the rising sense of desperation as he runs up the now vacated stairs in search of his friend.

Why is he not getting anywhere? No matter which steps he takes, which stairs he climbs, Jaskier is always somewhere else. Every time he makes it to the spot where he last saw the bard, Jaskier is gone, instead being somewhere on the opposite side of the room and never even looking at Geralt. It’s almost as if the castle is toying with him. 

What’s worse though, much worse than Geralt’s inability to actually reach Jaskier, is the complete and utter defeat the bard radiates. No matter where he is, on the stairs, shuffling down a hallway, sitting in a window, his shoulders are perpetually slumped and any song he’s humming, singing or playing is one of sorrow or, at best, wistful melancholy. It is almost as if someone has sucked all happiness and liveliness out of Jaskier, leaving him a pale shadow of the colourful soul Geralt knows.

That realisation makes him stumble when the flash of remorse at his actions shoots through him, but the emotion is accompanied by a surge of adrenaline and he rounds the next corner so fast he almost falls of the landing he ends up on. Of course, Jaskier is not there anymore, but at a round window several levels higher. He has set himself down in the curve of the window, one leg dangling towards the ground and the other pulled up, his arm resting on his knee as he stares outside, singing softly. _“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting…”_

Geralt does not run back at once, this time. Instead, he stares up at the singing bard, trying to catch his breath and calm down. _Think for a second_ , he tells himself. He takes a deep breath, then another, forcing his heart to slow down and racks his brain once more. He can’t keep on running up and down the stairs forever, but there seems to be no logic in these stairs and halls. Every time he thinks he has found a path, the room shifts and he finds himself somewhere he did not mean to go. 

Geralt blinks when the logical explanation hits him and he rolls his eyes. Of course, the room is similar to the labyrinth! He can’t run in willy nilly and hope he finds his way. He has to know his way first.

But he knows his way, doesn’t he? He wants to get to Jaskier, plain and simple. But something in the back of his mind tells him that this room won’t be as easily mollified as the labyrinth was.

Unbidden, Roach’s words come drifting back to him from the recesses of his mind. _'You have to be honest. Ask yourself why you need to get to your bard so badly.'_

Why does he want to get to Jaskier? Why is he so desperate to talk to him, to get him home? Geralt looks back up at the figure still resting in the window. Jaskier lets his free leg sway back and forth slowly, still singing softly, his lute leaning against the wall. The song, too soft now for Geralt to make out the words, is as sorrowful as the last one. It makes Geralt’s old, scarred heart ache in a way he did not know it still could.

He has hurt Jaskier in an unforgivable way. When he felt his entire life and everything he ever wanted slip through his fingers, he lashed out. Better not to drag out the inevitable, better to just speed up the process and save himself the hurt in the long run. Everyone he ever loved left him, after all.

But Jaskier… 

Jaskier was the one who stayed. Jaskier was never bound by magic, destiny or oaths. Back in Posada, nearly a lifetime ago, the bard took one look at Geralt and decided to stick with him, no matter how brash or harsh the witcher was with him. He cheerfully ignored the insults, remained unflinching at the snarls and bestowed kindness after kindness upon Geralt, year after year. And Geralt repaid him with sneers, dismissal and pain, on top of blaming him for everything that was, in the end, only Geralt’s doing.

Geralt inhales shakily, the sound of it strangely wet and choked while everything he’s been ignoring or denying while crossing the labyrinth, all the memories and sensations, fall into place and he finally realises that he’s known why he was going after Jaskier all along. He sent away the best thing that ever happened to him in his long life and he desperately wants it back. He’s been unforgivingly arrogant and brash, treating Jaskier as disposable, but damn him if he’s going to let it slip through his fingers now, now that he is so close to getting him back. He wants Jaskier to be home and safe and he will not rest until it is so, even if the bard decides to send him away or if Geralt spends the rest of his life making amends for what he’s done. 

His sense of confidence regained, Geralt looks up at the round window once more and feels an icy shard of fear when he sees that it is no longer there. But then he hears soft humming, much closer than it ever was and the scent of camomile drifts towards him. He turns around, knowing what he’ll see but still afraid that it’s a trick, and sees the round window at the end of the hallway and the silhouette of the bard, sharply contrasting with the light from outside. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes and he almost expects Jaskier not to react, to still be unable to hear him. But the moment the name leaves his lips, the bard stops singing and goes completely still. 

Geralt stays where he is, barely breathing as he waits for Jaskier to turn, to say something, anything. Jaskier, however, does nothing of the sort. Instead, he keeps on staring out the window, but unlike earlier, he is no longer relaxed and lounging. His entire posture has gone rigid, his foot no longer swinging and Geralt can hear his breaths, short and rapid, as well as the quickened thump of his heartbeat. 

Jaskier is afraid of him. Geralt feels a pang of regret as well as a vague sense of nausea and stays right where he is, unsure of what to do. He does not wish to agitate Jaskier any further, but at the same time, he longs to step closer. The memory of Jaskier leaning against him as they danced, his body heat radiating through his clothes, drifts into his consciousness and with it comes the uncertainty of this situation. How much of what Geralt has been through was real? How much of it does Jaskier remember? 

Geralt is pulled from his thoughts by a small sound Jaskier makes. “Geralt?” His voice is high, trembling and so full of fear and trepidation that it makes Geralt’s heart ache and he steps forwards a couple of paces before he can stop himself.

“Yes,” he says, softly, “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter was SO MUCH FUN to write, I swear. Tricky too, but that's Escher for you.
> 
> Tomorrow it's the final chapter aaaaaah!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE END OMFG
> 
> Yes yes it's not the next day yet but I can't wait. So here it is.
> 
> I really really really hope it works as well as I thought it did.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then the bard inhales shakily, before slowly shaking his head, still turned away. "I told you to stop doing that. Fuck off and leave me alone.”

“Jaskier, I-”

“Stop sounding like that!” Jaskier shouts, half-turning but deliberately not looking at Geralt. “I get it, alright? I fucked up. I should not have gotten involved. You made your point.”

Every word is like a knife, slicing through Geralt’s very soul and he tries desperately to say something, anything at all, but Jaskier cuts him off again before the words can even form. “I honestly thought it could work, you know?” His voice is softer now, most of its previous fire absent. “I thought it would be like in the stories mother told me when I was young. That we would have, I don’t know, the greatest adventure together and that we would… that we…” His breath hitches and he breaks off, bringing a hand to his face to rub at his eyes furiously. “Gods, how could I have been so naïve? Everyone told me to be careful, that witchers aren’t made to feel, but I thought they were wrong, I thought I actually knew a witcher with feelings. Well, joke’s on me, I suppose.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Jaskier, apparently, tries to maintain what’s left of his composure and Geralt can only gawk at his friend. As much as he had expected Jaskier’s pain and prepared himself, seeing it is a whole new experience. It sends yet another wave of guilt through him and he takes a hesitant step forwards, then another. 

Jaskier finally looks up when Geralt it only a couple of feet away from him and his face twists in anger, even though his eyes are will glinting with unshed tears. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I…” Geralt starts, frozen in place now that Jaskier is actually looking at him, “I came to apologise. I was wrong.”

“Stop it,” Jaskier hisses through clenched teeth.

“I can’t,” Geralt replies, taking yet another step. He’s almost next to Jaskier now, almost close enough that if he reached, he could actually cup his cheek with his hand.

“The fuck you can’t,” the bard snarls, surprising Geralt with both the vitriol in his voice and the speed at which he gets up from his perch in the windowsill. He stands to his full height, his face a mask of fury, fists balled and shoulders squared. “I fucking told you to stop it with the games. I will not pretend like this.”

That… actually makes Geralt pause. “What?”

“Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot!” Jaskier yells, his face now reddening with anger, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I will know it’s not real, alright? No matter how you act, how you make yourself look, I know it’s not really him. I will always know it’s not real and I will not be happy. So just… stop it with the charades. Stop trying to give me something I know I can’t have.”

Geralt frowns, repeating Jaskier’s words over and over in his mind. Something is off about them, as if Jaskier is responding to a slightly different conversation than the one Geralt is trying to have.

Jaskier actually gives a watery laugh through his tears, still not taking his eyes off of Geralt. “That’s actually quite good, the way you captured his frown. Almost like it’s the real deal.” He sniffles again, wiping his eyes with his sleeve even though more tears are still dripping from them. “No need to keep this up, though. Should have just kept my mouth shut for once, then maybe we could have just moved on, as always. I just... “ Jaskier pauses once more, that look of defeat and longing back on his face when he continues, “he looked so defeated, you know? I just wanted to help him. I can’t stand it when he’s sad.” 

Jaskier looks away again, staring out the window, still rubbing his face with his sleeve. “Honestly, it’s my own fault it all happened this way. I should have waited for him to cool off and then we could have just gone back to the Path.” His gaze becomes wistful, a hint of a smile that turns sad almost immediately and he wraps his arms around himself. “I would have been happy following him forever, really. He doesn’t owe me anything. I just… I guess I always hoped that one day he would finally see. That he would notice me, truly.”

Oh. _Oh._

Geralt chokes, his throat feeling like it’s closing up and his eyes burning. “Jask…” he croaks, barely recognising his own voice, “I’m so sorry.”

“So you keep saying,” Jaskier replies, still staring out of the window. “I appreciate that you’re trying to give me some closure, but I’d like for you to stop now.”

“That’s not what’s happening here,” Geralt replies, more forcefully, but not so much as to scare Jaskier off, “I’m here. I’m really here, Jaskier, and I’m sorry.”

Jaskier turns back slowly, his face carefully neutral, but he does not say anything. Geralt decides to take it as encouragement, or at least, a lack of discouragement. He clears his throat, gathers all his courage and takes a step closer. “I should not have said that, on the mountain. I was angry, I was in pain, but none of that was your fault and I’m so sorry for implying that, for making you feel like it was.”

The bard still gazes at him, but there is something in his eyes, an uncertainty or curiosity at what is happening. His tears have stopped for now, though, which is a good sign. Slowly, Geralt takes another step, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. “When I turned around and saw you disappear, Jaskier, I panicked. I thought you were gone and that the last words I said to you were cruel and unfair.”

Jaskier suddenly lets out a laugh, shrill and a little crazed. “Stop it,” he mumbles, but his face is rapidly losing colour and he is shaking his head, as if he’s slowly realising what is going on and it trying to convince himself of the contrary. 

In two quick strides, Geralt closes the distance between the two of them and grabs Jaskier by the upper arms. The bard flinches and goes completely still, his eyes as wide as saucers. For a moment, they stare at each other and then Geralt relaxes his hold a little, forcing himself to stay calm. “I know I have no right to say it, but the moment you vanished was one of the worst of my life.” His thumbs are rubbing slow, soft circles on Jaskier’s upper arms and he forces himself to maintain eye-contact, as if he can convey everything he is and isn’t saying in that way. “I knew it was my fault and I wanted you back immediately, if only to make sure you were safe. Not knowing where you were drove me almost mad and the moment I figured out how to get you back, I started trying. I’m sorry it took me almost losing you to realise how important you are to me, Jaskier. You deserve a lot better than what I have given you.”

Jaskier stares, his mouth slightly open in shock, but his posture is no longer as rigid and he seems to has lost every fight he had a moment ago. “You… you’re here?.”

“I’m here,” Geralt answers, relief flooding him so swiftly he can feel his heart surge, “I’m here, Jaskier. I came to find you. I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

Jaskier inhales sharply, his eyes welling once more with fresh tears, but he’s also smiling. “You really came for me. I thought you were glad to be rid of me.” His smile, bright as ever, suddenly dims and fades a little. “How did you find me? I don’t remember getting here.”

Slowly, Geralt let’s go of one of Jaskier’s arms to pull the sprig of camomile he picked from behind his ear, holding it up for the bard to see. “It took me a while to figure it out,” he admits, “had a couple near-misses along the way. Tricky place to navigate, this castle, and let’s not mention the labyrinth. But now I know how to find you, always.” He carefully tucks the small flower behind Jaskier’s ear, who smiles even wider at the gesture, his entire face lighting up. Geralt finds himself wondering how he never realised how bright Jaskier is when he smiles and he can’t resist gently cupping the bard’s face. Jaskier starts, his eyes widening a fraction, and he wordlessly reaches up and presses his hand against Geralt’s, leaning his face against the witcher’s palm.

They stand like that for a short while, something wordlessly having passed between them, before Jaskier breaks the silence once again. “Did you… did you find me before? I saw you so many times, but you almost never saw me.”

Geralt starts to deny it, but then he remembers a strange, dreamlike ballroom, with lilting music and twirling revelers, and he knows. He gently pulls Jaskier close, right hand hand on the small of his back, left hand lacing their fingers together. “I think I found you at least once before now,” he says, smiling softly. 

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he blushes - _he actually blushes_. “I thought it was another dream,” he admits, “you never looked at me like before.”

“I was a fool,” Geralt replies, gently squeezing Jaskier’s hand, “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize how you felt. Feel. And how I feel.”

Jaskier’s smile widens and he leans his head forwards, gently pressing their foreheads together as his eyes flutter shut. Geralt, too, closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of Jaskier, camomile and the soft-sweet scent of happiness. They stand together for a while, just breathing, together again after what feels like ages.

The moment is broken when soft footsteps approach, the sound of leather boots on stone. Geralt’s eyes snap open and he’s already moving to pull Jaskier behind him when a figure steps into the hallway, regarding them with a soft gaze. 

It takes Geralt a moment to recognise them, as they are completely unlike they have appeared to him before. Gone are the opulent robes, jewels and crown. The Goblin Ruler approaches them in a white shirt and a long coat of midnight blue, brown trousers and boots, their hair pulled back in a braid, exposing their pointy ears. They smile softly at the two men, pausing their gaze on their still entwined hands. “You did it,” they say gently, moving their gaze up to meet Geralt’s baffled stare, “you succeeded. I am so proud of you.”

Geralt sputters, at a complete loss for words, but the Ruler is already moving on, inclining their head at Jaskier. “I can see why you chose him, little flower,” they say, in a tone of voice like a proud parent talking to a precocious child, “I’m glad you two have worked things out.”

Jaskier squeaks, his face so red it almost matches his doublet. “I, ah, I mean… wait, was this… was all of this _your_ doing?” His voice breaks on the last two words, his face a picture of indignation. Geralt panics for a fraction of a second when Jaskier slips out of his grasp, but then he’s stunned to see Jaskier march up to the Ruler, pointing at them with an accusatory finger. “Did you kidnap me to your fucking castle and make Geralt walk through that godforsaken deathtrap you call a labyrinth to _set us up_?!”

The Ruler gives him a nonplussed look, as if they cannot fathom why Jaskier is reacting this way. “You were unhappy, my dear, and that simply would not do. What kind of Ruler would I be if I didn’t care for my subjects’ happiness?”

“That does not mean you can just toy with us!” Jaskier yells, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. “What if it hadn’t worked? What if Geralt had failed, what if any of your ‘failsafes’ had gotten him? What if he’d given up?”

Geralt feels he should be offended at that last question, but his mind is still stuck on something the Goblin Ruler said. “What do you mean, ‘your subjects’ happiness’? What does that have to do with either of us?”

Jaskier pivots around in shock and the Ruler shoots Geralt a look of fond exasperation. “I mean it like I said it, dear witcher. Jaskier is one of my subjects and as such, I take his happiness very seriously. Surely you must have noticed.”

“... _what_.”

“Yeah, um,” Jaskier pipes up, sheepishly, scratching the back of his head and fumbling with the hem of his doublet, “you never noticed? I thought it was just this thing we didn’t talk about, to be honest, but you don’t actually know that I’m part Fae?”

“... you are _what_?” Geralt squeaks, his head spinning with this new information that he, indeed, did not know about, “since when?”

“Since my entire life? Seriously, you didn’t know?” Jaskier shoots him a look that is both loving and peeved. “You didn’t notice that in over twenty years, I barely aged? That I prefer raw meat? That I don’t like pure iron? Really?” The bard lets out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Suddenly I’m not surprised that you never noticed my feelings. My parents always told me I’m an open book.”

Behind Jaskier, the Goblin Ruler watches their exchange with open delight, their hands clasped together in front of their chest. Geralt lets out a low growl in the back of his throat and steps forwards, standing next to Jaskier, his fingers twitching for want of his sword. “Back to the original question. Why this entire charade? Why go through all of this trouble?”

The Goblin Ruler starts to laugh. “Dear witcher, when I met you on that mountain, you were so far in denial I was ready to deny you even the slightest chance to ever see Jaskier again. My first impression of you was that of a brash, cold man who only took and took what he could get from those willing to give it to him. Can you blame me for wanting to test your character? After all, dear Jaskier was ready to give you his heart. I simply wanted assurance that you had at least some redeeming qualities.”

Geralt’s gaze shifts to Jaskier, whose face has once more gone carefully blank at the mention of his feelings, but who meets his gaze head-on, unwavering. “So he was never in danger?” Geralt asks, not looking away from the bard, “You lied to the both of us?”

“Ah,” the Ruler pipes up, holding up an admonishing finger, “I never lied to either of you, dear witcher.”

“You said-”

“I _implied_ ,” the Ruler continues, talking over Geralt as if he never spoke in the first place, “I simply let you come to your own conclusions. I took Jaskier, yes, not as a result of your wish, but because he was in pain and you needed time to realise what you did. I gave you a time limit, because I knew if you took too long, Jaskier might not want to see you anymore. I gave you a challenge, because I knew you would not trust me if I granted you passage freely. You are a jaded man. Anything that just falls into your lap is untrustworthy to men like you. Besides,” they add, that grin once more returning to their face, “I have a soft spot for young love and the grand gestures that come with it. Grant an old romantic something to soothe their ancient heart.”

“You may not have actually lied to him,” Jaskier pipes up, his words measured and calm, even though Geralt can hear an undertone of subdued anger in them, “but what about me? Why did you try so hard to ‘soothe my pain’? Why the ball? Why give me all those dreams, even when I said I didn’t want to pretend?”

The Ruler inclines their head, casting down their gaze for a moment before looking back up at him, a hint of apology in their eyes. “Dear Buttercup, would you have so easily laid your feelings bare, knowing it was truly Geralt before you and not another, ah, _well-meaning_ attempt at making you happy?”

Jaskier sputters, his eyes narrowing at the Ruler, but he seems truly at a loss for words. The Ruler, a soft smile on their face, gently pats him on the cheek like a grandparent would a child. “I am sorry I hurt you, little flower. It was not something I relished, believe me.” Then they turn to Geralt once more. “I would apologise for deceiving you too, Geralt, but Melitele knows I also wanted to punch you several times over what you did to Jaskier.” Their gaze bores into Geralt’s once more, intense like that of a parent of a hurt child. “It is not my place to absolve you of your wrongdoings, so I will just say this. Hurt him again, and you will have me to answer to. Is that understood?”

Once more, Geralt finds himself squirming under that intense gaze and he longs for this conversation to be over and to go back home, Jaskier in tow as always. “I will not hurt him again,” he mutters, shuffling his feet.

“See that you don’t,” the Ruler replies. They turn to Jaskier one final time. “Peace and long life, little flower,” they say, laying both hands on his shoulders, “I wish you nothing but the very best.” 

Jaskier inhales shakily, but nods and inclines his head, so the Ruler can press a kiss to the crown of his head. Then he turns back and wordlessly makes his way over to Geralt, hesitating. Geralt, however, meets him halfway, firmly clasping Jaskier’s hand in his own. Jaskier looks surprised for a moment, but then his mouth curls into a soft smile and he squeezes Geralt’s fingers. “Ready?” he asks.

Before Geralt can reply, there is a shift and a drop, like the ground vanishes from beneath their feet. Geralt swears and stumbles, his head spinning with the after-effects of the portal, and he has to bend over and lean a hand on his knee for a bit, trying to regain his balance and, more importantly, not lose the contents of his stomach.

“I fucking hate portals,” Geralt growls by the time the world has stilled once more. slowly getting back up to find that they are back on the mountain where everything started. 

“I find you get used to them,” Jaskier replies casually. Unlike Geralt, he’s still upright and unflapped, as if he uses portals on a regular basis. Fuck, maybe he does? How many things has Geralt not noticed in their time together? His gaze drops down to their still joined hands and he feels an awful pit in his stomach.

Jaskier, perceptive to Geralt’s moods as he always has been, follows the witcher’s gaze and pouts. “So…” He trails off, blue eyes trailing back up to Geralt’s, filled with unasked questions.

“So,” Geralt echoes, meeting Jaskier’s gaze.

They stare at each other for a while, hands still clasped. The silence drags on, a little uncomfortable, but Geralt finds that he doesn’t know what’s going to happen now. Do they pick up where they left off? Do they ignore what just happened? Do they just go down the mountain and then go their separate ways?

Geralt blurts out “I don’t-” at the same time Jaskier says “Do we need-” and they both stop, then try again. Finally, Geralt grunts a “You first,” and Jaskier swallows, hard.

“I, uh… I suppose you have questions,” he mumbles, tearing his gaze away from Geralt’s to stare at their still joined hands, now between them. “I guess I owe you an explanation, at least.”

Geralt tries to keep his face neutral, even though unease starts to coil in his stomach.

“So uh, I honestly thought you knew and just didn’t care about my heritage,” Jaskier blurts out, words stumbling from his lips at increasing speed the more he talks, “I just figured, this was another thing we don’t talk about, so I didn’t bring it up. If I’d known you didn’t know, I would have told you, I mean, I know you don’t just kill monsters for being monsters and all-”

“Don’t say that!” The words come out harsher than he means to and Jaskier squeaks, his jaw shutting with an almost audible click, his eyes wide. Geralt mentally admonishes himself, already frustrated with his inability at handling things like this. He pauses, takes a breath, exhales…

“You are not a monster,” he starts, slowly, measuring and tasting his words before deciding which ones to say first, “and I don’t care about your heritage. No, wait, that’s-” He curses under his breath, giving Jaskier a desperate look to beg him for more time to figure out how to say this. The bard, thankfully, seems so understand without being told, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

“Right. What I mean is, I understand that you are worried,” Geralt starts again, “but you don’t have to be. I don’t care what you are, what your heritage is. You are Jaskier, you are…” He wants to say ‘my friend’, but that’s not true anymore, is it? “You are Jaskier,” he repeats, lamely, “and I’m glad you’re here. With me,” he adds, “and I want you to stay. Fuck, I want you to stay for as long as you can. I mean… if that’s what you want?”

Jaskier is staring at him thoughtfully and for a brief second, Geralt worries that he said the wrong thing, but then the bard brings up their still joined hands, holding them up between them. “Is this… is this real then? This is not out of pity?” he asks, timidly. “Because if it is, Geralt, I do not want it.”

“It’s real,” Geralt hastens to assure him, “I… I had no idea you felt like this, Jask, and I had no idea I felt like this. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m sorry for a lot of things.” He stares at Jaskier intently, begging him to see the truth he’s trying to convey. 

Jaskier, for his part, studies his expression for a moment. “Say I accept,” he finally says, maintaining their eye-contact, “say I come with you, back to the Path. What will it be like? How will we do this?”

Geralt pauses, carefully considering the question. Part of him wants to promise Jaskier the world, wants to promise frequent visits to inns, better food, no more grunts or shouts or bad moods. But he quells that feeling before it can form into actual words, knowing that the promises would be empty. He’s a moody person, he knows, and too jaded to be the soft lover he thinks Jaskier deserves, as much as he want to be. So instead, he squeezes Jaskier’s hand gently and replies. “If you do decide to join me, we will go back to the Path. We will sleep out in the open a lot and hunt for our food when we need to. You will sing at inns and taverns and I will take jobs that are too much effort for too little coin. I will be moody and quiet and you will be brash and loud.” 

Jaskier starts to frown, confused, but Geralt isn’t done yet. “After every hunt, I will come back to you and let you tend to my injuries, if I have them. When I go to collect my pay, you will be at my side, ensuring that I get what I am owed. When you have an important event to play at, I will come with you and watch. When we eat, we will share what we have. When we sleep, we will be close together, always.”

He carefully brings Jaskier’s knuckles up to his mouth and presses a kiss to them, enjoying the feeling as much as the flutter of Jaskier’s lashes at the contact. “And when we fight, because we will, I will come back afterwards, no matter how bad it is, and we will talk it out. When you talk to me about your songs, I will listen. When I get too lost in my head, you will tell me I’m being an ass and remind me of what is important. And when…” He pauses one final time, looking in Jaskier’s eyes to convey the meaning of his words, “when winter comes, I will take you to Kaer Morhen, to my home, to meet my family. If that is what you want.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and Geralt braces himself for the worst, scared that this is it, this is the moment Jaskier leaves, but then the bard smiles so wide his entire face lights up and it’s like the sun is shining from his eyes. “Yes,” he breathes, his free hand coming up to cover their joined hands, gripping Geralt’s fingers tightly, “yes, to all of it!” He leans forwards again, like he did earlier, and Geralt leans in too, letting go of Jaskier’s hands only to cup the bard’s face gently, stroking a thumb over his cheek and encircling the bard’s back. They press together knee to shoulder, Jaskier gripping his shoulders tightly, their foreheads touching as they bask in each other’s proximity. For a brief moment, Geralt thinks they can stay there forever.

But then Jaskier pulls back, eyes still shining and the moment is over. “So, back to the Path then. Where do you suppose it will lead?”

Geralt smiles too, already knowing where they will go. “Cintra. Got my Destiny waiting for me. It’s about time I go and meet it. ” He pauses for a moment. "Then we... I should try to find Yennefer. There are some things I should tell her, offer her. She deserves that, at least." At the mention of the sorceress, something flickers across Jaskier's face, but he says nothing, setting his jaw and Geralt is, once more, in awe of how much Jaskier understands him without needing a single word. 

“And then," Geralt continues, finally, "if we should like to, we could go to the coast.”

Jaskier laughs, the sound just as melodic as Geralt remembers, sending a flutter through the witcher’s stomach, and he gives a firm nod. “Lead the way, dear heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s this? I actually wrote a Pre-Slash fic? No actual Slash going on? I’m still tagging it as such tho, if only for the hopeful ending.
> 
> WHEW. This was amazing to write, and difficult to share, but I do hope you all had a good time reading it. I've been hella self-indulgent with this, in many ways.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting, kudos and everything else. I've got many more ideas and I'm really hoping I can keep the discipline I had worked out for this particular story, because I have so much more planned for these bois.


End file.
